


Adjustments

by RikkiTikkiCathy



Series: Makers [3]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Dragon Age Big Bang, Drunken Threesome, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Dwarf Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, H-frame, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Possession, Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4001218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RikkiTikkiCathy/pseuds/RikkiTikkiCathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things had finally settled in Skyhold. Corypheus had been defeated, the south was easing back into order, and a long summer had been passing pleasantly. So, when a demon-possessed mage stumbled in, it was understandable that he wasn't terribly well-received.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a stand-alone written for Tumblr's Dragon Age: Big Bang event, but it is also a companion piece to my (completed) fic, Birthrights. While it was written to stand on its own merit it does come in on already established relationships. 
> 
> The positively lovely companion art was done by Eclectify at http://eclectify.tumblr.com/. She has been amazing as we worked on our respective projects and went far above and beyond for this story. Visit her site and give her all the love in the world!

[ ](http://eclectify.tumblr.com/post/119833966157/full-view-please-my-artwork-for-dragon-age-big)

 

 

 

Adjustments: Part 2 of the Makers Series

           The warm summer night of the keep was filled with laugher. On a roof somewhere two women sat chatting about cookies. One giggled, one guffawed, and their merriment joined the fray. In the well below the courtyard soldiers rolled dice. Their good-natured rumbling rolled up, contributing a pleasant timber. On a balcony a spy and a commander played a game of chess, taunting and teasing one another over every move. She giggled, he laughed awkwardly and their amusement mingled, melodic on the humid breeze.

           The most boisterous came from the tavern wherein many of Skyhold’s finest, and plenty of its less fine, had gathered together to hear one of Varric’s tales. It was a common enough occurrence these days. With the threat of the Breach gone they could indulge in amusements. The people who had come to the place where the sky is kept had lost much, but now they were finally rebuilding. There was time for laughter once more, and drink and cheer. And, much more importantly, there was time for stories.

            “I kid you not,” Varric said loudly over the din of the noisy tavern. It was an old one, one he had told many times before, but it was new to some of the patrons. “Hawke said, ‘Looks like the Duke… has fallen from grace’!” Laughter filled the small room and the dwarf looked to his left where Hawke sat. Her face was in her palms as she shook her head. “And that,” Varric continued, “is how Duke Gaspard died!”

            “He made it sound far more amusing than it was,” she yelled, straightening her back and lifting her mug. “I just get punny when I’m battle fatigued and sleep deprived!” The story over, the crowd turned their attentions their previous efforts, waving and winking and shouting “sure” and “right, Champion,” disbelievingly as they went, removing the pair from the spotlight.

            “Maybe you should have spent more time sleeping, then,” Varric quipped voice lowered so only she could hear him, “and spent less time mussing the sheets with the mage.”

            She shot him a glare and, Maker, if it didn’t take his breath away. Her high cheekbones, flushed from drink, her kissable lips, those dark eyes, so dangerous and expressive. Maybe the barb had been a mistake. It had been years since they had so much as seen Anders but the dwarf knew that scar ran deep.

            For a moment the narrowed squint of her gaze lingered and he worried he might owe her an apology, but then her eyes crinkled at the corners and her lips curved into a beautiful, wicked smile. “It wasn’t the mage,” she said. “I could hear your snoring through three rooms in that Lowtown tavern.”

            Varric laughed boisterously and took a long pull of ale from his mug. “Poor Blondie,” he sighed exaggeratedly, “you were thinking of me while lying next to him.” He turned to Hawke and winked just in time to see the blush climbing up the pale stretch of her neck. Then she ducked her head and hid behind what little barrier her short black locks offered.

            Drunk, and emboldened by their, admittedly new, connection, Varric lifted his hand and brushed the strands away, tucking a finger under her chin and turning her to look at him. He smiled at her, thumb stroking the soft skin of her cheek as he admired the red scar that streaked over the bridge of her nose – the place she had so often streaked crimson paint across. He loved that about her, how she owned everything she was. Other women might have hidden from such a mark, but not his Hawke. “You don’t  _ever_  have to hide your face from me, sweetheart,” he said sincerely. She blushed harder, smiled softly, and leaned into his touch. It turned him into absolute jelly to see her being so vulnerable, so trusting. He’d gotten  _very_  lucky somehow.

            “That was a long time ago,” she said softly, pulling away from his touch, turning her eyes away, and emptying her mug in one long swallow. He felt a little disappointed by that, until her hand came to rest on his thigh. He smirked up at her wondering when he could get her alone again. Their dalliance had been going on for months now. He knew how he felt, and he’d even managed to get Hawke to open up but there was no such thing as having enough of her, he was finding. It was so odd to love an  _available_  woman.

            Varric drained his drink and called for another round. The tavern at Skyhold was a wonderful place, he decided. Good audiences, good drink, fair music… but he missed Kirkwall. He and Hawke had discussed going back, helping to rebuild the city. And they would. As soon as the Inquisitor left he and Hawke would be on their way. Of course that trip had been postponed several times now. At this rate the Inquisitor and Dorian wouldn’t leave in time to beat the snow.

            Truth be told, Varric didn’t mind the delays. He liked it here, and he didn’t want to leave Cole. He was still working on that. The boy seemed reluctant. This was the first home he had ever known, the first place he had felt safe and accepted, and the boy was too new to the world to realize that it was the people who mattered, not the place. He’d come around eventually, they just needed time.

            The night passed with laughter and singing and lingering looks until he felt his bed calling. He and Hawke left the tavern side by side, a bit inebriated, giggling and trading friendly barbs as they walked down the hill toward the stables. There was a time they would have had to be quiet to avoid waking and angering Blackwall, but the Warden was out recruiting. He’d come back to Skyhold with the makings of a new order of Grey Wardens… if he was lucky. So, the stables seemed like a nice place to find some privacy on a late summer night such as this.

            They were halfway to the bottom of the hill when a man in a cloak with hood drawn stumbled into them. In any other place in the world Varric would have been on guard for pickpockets and assassins but this was Skyhold. It was small, though a town proper was springing up outside the walls. He knew all the faces here, friendly and not so friendly.

            “All right there, friend?” Varric asked as he reached out to steady the man. Hawke took a step to the side so she might better see the person. Maker, but he stank. He smelled of sour ale and sharp liquor and unwashed body. Varric could see now that the cloak, beyond tattered, was nearly worn through, patched a dozen times if once. From what he could see of the clothing underneath they’d been worn for a long time without changing. Worn out trousers and the fringe of an unraveling hem, poked out.

            “Sorry,” the man muttered. He started to continue on his way but Varric held up a hand, stopping him.

            “Is there something we can help you with?” Varric asked. “You looking for someone?”

            “Yes,” the man sighed, “I am.” Then the man leaned forward over Varric, revealing his face to the dwarf. A fringe of red-blonde hair fell out of the hood. Caramel eyes that had once been bright and full of life were now gazing intently at the dwarf, but there was no light in them. Hard lines of pain were written across the mage’s face, and where once there had been a scruff of facial hair there now blossomed a full and tangled beard.

            “Blondie?” Varric whispered in shock. That was all the time he had to react before Hawke reached out and pulled the hood back revealing Anders, or what was left of him, to the night sky. Varric watched her reactions carefully. Her fingers went to her lips and her eyes pooled with rare and startling tears. She reached out, pulling the mage into a fierce huge, despite the filth of him, and fisted her hands in his battered cloak.

            “You’re alive,” she sobbed brokenly. “Thank the Maker, you’re alive.”

            Varric wasn’t sure how he felt about this. He was happy Anders was okay. Even with all his faults, they had been good friends. He knew losing track of him had been hard Hawke. Hell, it had been hard on him too. But he hadn’t anticipated she would react like… well, like  _that_. He was just starting to feel like a third wheel when she pulled back from the mage and he could see her face had gone hard with anger.

            “You lying son of a darkspawn,” she growled as her fist drew back. In the moment before it connected across Anders’s cheek Varric could see the resignation on the mage’s face. He didn’t try to move, or stop her. He stood firm, took the blow, and then fell backwards with an audible “thud,” unconscious. “Shit,” she muttered quietly, clenching and unclenching her fist.

            “Maker,” Varric said with a long low whistle. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.” He looked from the mage up at Hawke and saw her looking at him, tears still glittering in the moonlight. Those tears were as much of a shock as Anders’s arrival… well, nearly. He could count the number of times he had seen them on one hand. She much preferred fighting to crying. He took her hand in his and slowly peeled her fingers open before dropping a kiss across her knuckles. “It’s okay, Hawke,” he said softly.

            She nodded, squeezed his hand, and straightened her back. “We need to put him somewhere out of the way,” she said authoritatively. “Any suggestions?”

            “There are some unused rooms in the ramparts. They’re in need of repair but they’ll do fine for this season,” he suggested. Hawke nodded, looking down on the unconscious mage. “You’ll have to carry him, though, seeing has how you knocked him out and all.”

            She nodded again and leaned down, taking him over her shoulders easily. “Andraste,” she swore, “he doesn’t weigh a thing. Alright, Fuzzy, lead the way.”

            “You know I hate it when you call me that,” Varric mock-grumbled with a grin and began walking.

            “No you don’t,” she replied, the smallest hint of a smile returning to her tone.

            “No,” he admitted with a smirk, “I don’t.”

            The room off the ramparts wasn’t too far, though getting the bloody mage up the stairs to it had been an interesting exercise. Still, Hawke was a capable woman and soon enough they had put Anders on the cold stone floor and gone to fetch a few things. A simple bedroll and blanket would have to do for bedding. Varric rustled up a change of clothing and a basin for washing, even a razor to deal with what was, clearly, a matted mess of a beard. Hawke had gathered some food – bread, cheese, water – and candles.

            When they returned with the goods Anders was sitting up against the wall, slumped, arms wrapped around himself, pulling his cloak tight. He didn’t even look up when they entered. “I deserved that,” he said.

            “Yes,” Hawke agreed, setting down her items. She busied herself with lighting candles to see by and setting things into proper places. “You did. And more.”

            “No kidding,” Varric said. “You got off easy, Blondie.”

            Anders looked up at them and managed a weak smile. “You can hit me as many times as you like,” he said. “I’m just happy you’re alive. Both of you.”

            “Whoa there,” Varric said warningly, “best not to tempt her.”

            “I don’t want to hit you,” Hawke grumbled, somewhat unconvincingly. She finished setting up the bedding and then walked over to the mage. “I want you to get naked, wash up, shave, put on clean clothes, BURN the rags you’re wearing, and then tell us what in the Void you are doing in Skyhold.”

            Anders nodded, rose shakily to his feet, and began disrobing. “Uh,” Varric drawled, “do you need help?” The mage shook his head. “Right then, we’ll be right outside.” He gestured to the door and Hawke departed. He followed, the door swinging shut behind them. As soon as it was closed Hawke put her back to the stone wall of the room and slid down until she was seated with her knees pulled tight to her chest and her head resting on them.

            Varric stood next to her and ran the palm of his hand across the top of her head, feeling the silky slip of her dark hair under it. “Alright, Hawke?” he asked after a moment.

            “No,” she said, voice muffled.

            “That’s okay, sweetheart,” he replied dropping a kiss atop her head. Hawke reached up and grabbed his free hand, squeezing tightly. They stayed that way, silently comforting, reassuring, until they heard the door swing open.

            “I’m done,” Anders said.

            Varric led the way, Hawke trailing reluctantly behind. There was a heavy silence in the room, nearly suffocating. The mage didn’t speak. Hawke put herself in the farthest corner, shaded by darkness. He understood why she did that. She was a fighter. When she felt unsafe she would assume whatever position afforded her the most control. From her current spot she could see all the exits, the light didn’t quite reach her, making her expression hard to read and offering her the chance to strike first if things came to blows. She even pulled out her favorite knife and idly picked underneath her nails, subtly threatening. She was probably working out of pure instinct right now. Given the only other people in the room were the ones who had known her the best in the last eight years none of these tactics were going to be effective. Varric considered telling her so, but if this made her feel safe, in a situation that was, at best, precarious, than perhaps it was wiser to let her indulge in the ritual.

            But, Maker help him, he could  _not_  endure the silence. “So, Anders,” Varric drawled as he found his way to a bit of fallen wall and parked his bottom on it. “Now that you’re out of those rags I can practically smell a story on you.” Anders didn’t answer right away and Varric was left with nothing to do but watch him. The washing and dressing and shaving had made a real difference in him. He looked almost recognizable as the affable, caring healer he had known. But if anything that only highlighted exactly how much he had changed.

            It was obvious the mage had been having a hard time. He’d never been built like a warrior but he’d had a fair amount of lean muscle on that wiry frame. Now he was thin. Eaten away to almost nothing. The clothes they had found would have done passingly well if he matched the image the dwarf still carried in his head, but on  _this_  man the clothes fell loosely. Nothing fit. His hair was pulled back now, with a scrap of fabric, but the locks were too long and still greasy. He’d need a proper bathing as soon as they could manage. There were new scars on the parts of him they could see, his neck, his face, his hands. Those had been the hands of a man who mended wounds. Now they were the hands of hard days, of struggle, of bloodshed.

            However, it was the eyes that really cut Varric. Anders had been an expressive man. It might have been pain or amusement or longing or even anger, but those eyes had never looked as they looked now. Varric didn’t need to hear the story to know what those eyes said. Defeat. Desperation. Resignation. There was simply no fight left in the mage.

            “I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” Anders said softly. He looked around the room, but didn’t linger on any particular spot. Varric made a soft, noncommittal noise of encouragement. “I came here because I heard you were here, Varric.”

            The dwarf felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. “Me?” Well that’s not how he would have written it at all. The revolutionary who had betrayed the woman who loved him should have been here for her.  _That_  at least made sense. Find the girl, make amends, ride off into the sunset. What could he possibly want with Varric?

            “Yeah,” Anders said. His voice was so rough. “I heard you and the Inquisitor were close. Heard a lot of things the last few years. When the Order of the Seekers snatched you up I tried to keep up to date on my info. Thought they might be after me.”

            “Oh,” Hawke said from across the room, “they are.” She didn’t look up from the knife and her nails. “But they were asking Varric where  _I_  was.” The mage looked despondent.

            “Well, Blondie,” Varric said, “it’s nice to know you care, but why bother? You think I was going to give you up? Did you come here to find out what I told them? Bit late.”

            Anders shook his head. “No, I figured even if you had said anything they had bigger problems, what with the Breach and all. I came to ask you for your help.”

            This time Varric’s jaw fell open in genuine shock.  _Help?_  What could Varric possibly do? He didn’t have to ask. It seemed that, with the floodgates open, Anders couldn’t stop talking.

            “I’ve seen what the Inquisition has done for the mages in Ferelden. What it continues to do. I’ve heard things… impossible things, Varric,” he said looking up at the dwarf properly. Varric returned the gaze steadily, managing to close his mouth and act like an intelligent being. “If even half of the things I have heard are true, then I had to come.”

            “I still don’t see how  _I_  can help you, Blondie,” Varric said honestly.

            The mage looked back to the floor. “I – I knew I had no right to ask you,” he said weakly. “But I had nowhere else to go.”

            Hawke was across the room in an instant. The knife clattered to the stone floor as she dropped it to grab Anders and pull him to his feet. He didn’t resist, didn’t even look surprised. “Give me one good reason,” she growled in his face, “why I shouldn’t drag you before the Inquisitor to face justice right now.”

            Anders swallowed thickly. “Because,” he said slowly. “ _Justice_ is the problem. And if we don’t fix it, he’s going to rage through Thedas like a storm.”

 

VVV

 

            Fitzwilliam’s head was aching. Maker, he was the Inquisitor not a magic theorist! Yet Dagna, Sandal, and Doctus Dexsius had been talking his ears off all morning in an attempt to explain their latest breakthrough. They were clearly very excited about it, but he wasn’t really grasping the concept. That was a consequence of assembling this team, he supposed. Dagna and sandal were enthusiasm incarnate. And the good doctus, though he  _appeared_  quite refined and dignified in his fine Tevinter robes, was  _hardly_  better when it came to this project.

            Fitzwilliam had to admit, Doctus Kaeso Dexsius looked  _excellent_  for a man of his age, and once again he silently thanked Dorian for recommending him to the job. Dexsius’s hair, though it had gone white, had not thinned, and the absentminded disheveled look he sported more days than not was certainly attractive on him. Perhaps that was the problem here, the man was distracting Fitz with his obvious charms.

“You see,” he was saying, attempting to explain the theory in a different way. “If you sever the lyrium at its most basic fundamental levels one part cannot be effected without the opposite part being equally but oppositely effected!” He waved his hands excitedly. “That is how we will make this work. We will sever it, put one half in one location and its opposite in another. Then when they are activated they will speak to each other!”

            Fitzwilliam stared blankly, then turned to the mage at his side. Dorian’s eyes were not glazed as he stroked the small patch of hair beneath his lower lip. On the contrary, they positively twinkled with excitement. “Dexsius,” he said at last, “that’s brilliant!” The mage turned to Fitzwilliam, animated and eager, his mustache lifted dramatically as a grin stretched his face. Fitz’s eyes were drawn to his lips, however, and it was all he could do not to kiss him. “Don’t you see what this means?”

            Fitz nodded absently, then blinked looking back up at Dorian’s eyes. “Sorry, what?” He wasn’t sure if it was simply obvious that his mind was wandering or if he had the Lenen'hima'sa, the ancient magic which bound his soul and emotions to Dorian’s, to blame for betraying him. As much as Fitzwilliam appreciated it, at times the Elvhen link was a downright hindrance to any attempt at deception. The mage could simply  _feel_  Fitz’s distraction, just as Fitzwilliam was now feeling Dorian’s amusement.

            Dorian laughed. “Are you catching  _any_  of this, Amatus?”

            “Sadly,” Fitzwilliam said, “no. I don’t know why you insist on me coming to these briefings.”

            “Because this was your beautifully insane idea,” Dorian replied with a smirk. “And it’s  _you_  who brings  _me_. And why do you bring me?” he asked rhetorically. He did not allow Fitzwilliam time to respond. “To explain. So allow me to try.” He waited for Fitzwilliam’s nod, so much more reverent before company than he was in their private rooms, before beginning. “Imagine a dance,” Dorian began and Fitzwilliam instantly groaned. “No,” he said, eyeing the man. “You’re right, don’t do that.” The mage stood and took the Inquisitor’s hand, pulling the reluctant man to the center of the room. “Why imagine a dance when we could just as easily perform one?”

            They began, with no music, a dance they both knew well. It was a complex number, requiring many different steps and gestures as well as an exact paralleling of your partner’s movements. “You see,” Dorian said with a smile. “The principle works like this: one half of the lyrium will lead, the other will have to mirror. They will move in what is, essentially, opposite ways, but they are not working counter to one another. They are working in opposite ways to a common cause.” As they danced, through the motions of their bodies, Fitzwilliam could  _feel_  what the mage was saying. He was not doing the same things Dorian was, he was doing the opposite of them. Yet they did not crash together and tumble to the floor in a heap. Instead, they made something beautiful.

            “Maker,” Fitzwilliam gasped, looking into Dorian’s eyes, “but you have a way with words.”

            Dorian chuckled affectionately. “Perhaps we should continue this dance later,” he suggested in a low voice. “In private?” Fitzwilliam nodded. The dance stopped and, sadly, they parted. He always felt colder when Dorian’s touch was gone.

           The couple turned back to the, momentarily forgotten, group of scholars. Two dwarves and a Tevinter mage. Dexsius looked on, expression as politely blank as he could manage, though his eyes betrayed a twinkle, at least, of amusement. Sandal always looked a little dreamy so nothing much had changed there, just a smile and a distant gaze. Dagna, however, was obviously suppressing some sort of high-pitched squeal. She was entirely too interested in the Inquisitor and mage’s relationship and Fitzwilliam was pretty sure he knew who was to blame on that account – Varric. Fitzwilliam had seen scraps of his next novel making the rounds.

           “So,” Fitz said, diving right back in and ignoring the responses of the inventors. “What you’re telling me is that if we sever the lyrium in the right way, link it via the fade, and put the pieces in different locations we can use them to move objects across space?”

           “Well,” Dexsius drawled, clearly attempting to play along in the Inquisitor ruse of disinterest. “That’s a rather paired down summation, but yes, essentially.”

           “That’s amazing!” Fitzwilliam shouted. However, upon inspection is became abundantly clear that the room had a quid pro quo to add. “So… what’s the problem?”

           “Well,” Dagna spoke up, apparently her interest in this project trumped her delight in seeing the dance. “We’d need a lot of lyrium, Inquisitor.”

           “The Inquisition has that kind of access,” he said. “It shouldn’t be an issue.”

           “And it all has to be in one solid piece…” she added slowly.

           “Oh.” Well, that  _would_  make it more difficult. “Just tell me what you need to make this work,” he said finally.

           “On the small scale,” Dexsius interjected, “we have what we need to make another prototype, one that can transfer larger objects than apples. But to make this happen as per your requests we will need a single,  _sizeable_  chunk.”

           “How sizeable, exactly?” Dorian asked.

           “Large enough to fit at least a single, grown, male Qunari inside,” the white-haired mage responded.

           Dorian let out a long, slow whistle. “That’s going to take some serious string pulling,” Fitzwilliam mused.

           “Ha,” Dorian scoffed. “String pulling? That’s going to require a whole damn puppet show!”

           “I’ll see what can be done,” Fitzwilliam assured. “But you’re going to have to get the next prototype working perfectly. There’s no way under the Maker that you’ll get a second chance at a chunk of lyrium as large as Iron Bull. There will be no room for error.”

           Dexsius nodded. “Understood, Inquisitor.”

           “How’s Sandal doing?” Fitzwilliam looked at the dwarf as he asked and the boy smiled back dumbly.

           “The lack of language has been a barrier,” the doctus admitted, “but give the boy the pieces and the theory and you’d swear he was a mage. The things he can do are astounding.”

           Dagna put a protective arm around the boy and smiled up at the Inquisitor. “Sandal’s mind is beautiful,” she said. “It’s a shame so much of his time was wasted on basic enchantment.”

           “Enchantment!” Sandal exclaimed. Dagna grinned.

           “Well if he needs anything,” Fitzwilliam assured, “you be sure to let me know. Or if I’m not available find Varric. He’s… resourceful.” They shared a knowing smile of amusement and Fitzwilliam winked at her before turning on his heel.

           Fitzwilliam and Dorian left the undercroft and began to climb the long stair back to the hall.

           “I’ll head to Alexius,” Dorian said. “See if he has any input on the matter.”

           “How is Alexius?” Fitzwilliam asked. “You two have been spending time together but he cannot be  _enjoying_  his seclusion.”

           Dorian waved a hand dismissively. “He’s no fan of the Templar-trained sentry,” the mage agreed. “But he feels fortunate to be alive and allowed to work. He  _had_  feared you’d have him made tranquil.”

           “Oh,” Fitz said emphatically, “I had considered it. After everything the man had done it was clear he was a danger.”

           “I must confess,” Dorian said, stopping and turning to look down at Fitzwilliam one stair below him. “I am not clear on why you did not.  _That_  is what the right of tranquility is for, after all.”

           Fitzwilliam considered his answer carefully. There had been many factors leading up to that decision. And in the months after defeating Coryphaeus he did wonder if he had made the right choice. The world had always had dangers enough, and he questioned whether or not the cost of removing them was worth the safety it would assure. But, he supposed, in this case his ruling had come down to a single trait the accused had possessed. “Alexius,” he began slowly, “was a good father.” He watched Dorian’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “I remember talking to you about Felix, about the days when Gereon was your mentor. When he gave you another chance at having a family. He was blinded by his love, not by his hate. In my estimation, that was his saving grace.”

           Dorian’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck, pulling their heads close as his mouth slanted over his in a deep kiss that lingered. Here, in the dark and chill of the stone stair to the belly of Skyhold, they did not worry over passersby and gossip. The world was the two of them, the smell of dirt, and the trickle of water. When they parted Fitzwilliam inhaled deeply, pulling the citrus and spice scent of the man he loved along with the air his lungs craved.

           “You should really consider a career shift,” Dorian said smugly as he pulled farther from Fitzwilliam’s touch. “You’re going to make a terrible assassin. You care far too much for people. The market in Tevinter will eat you alive.”

           Fitz smirked up at the mage. “I think the clientele make a rather good argument for the need for an assassin with a conscience.”

           Dorian’s smile lingered as he turned his back to the man and continued their ascent. “Speaking of,” he said nonchalantly, “aren’t you late for your meeting with Leliana?”

           “Andraste!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed, scrambling past the mage and rushing up the stair. “She’s going to kill me, Dorian!”

           The roiling bubble of the mage’s amused laughter followed him, echoing up the length of the cut-stone stairway as he ran for the door.

           …

           Varric sat heavily upon his bed. His elbows resting on his knees, his hands propped up and ready to receive his head, which they promptly did. His palms rubbed at rough stubble and tired eyes. Near the table he could hear Hawke pacing anxiously. He couldn’t blame her. Anders’s story had been a hard one, and the choices they now faced… even harder. It seemed Blondie had lost control of the spirit. He wasn’t an abomination... yet, though that was precious little comfort.

           The mage had looked so weak, so fragile – downright defeated. It had been hard for Varric seeing him like that, but Hawke had been unhinged by it. She’d been flying from rage to mourning all night. Even now, as the early dawn light seeped through the curtains and exhaustion pulled at them, she could find no peace. It hurt the dwarf to see her like this, confused and worried. She was used to being in charge, taking action, but in this there was precious little she could do. She wasn’t a mage, she didn’t have resources at her disposal or knowledge of the spirit world. She was, for once, just as trapped as the rest of them.

           And Maker forgive him, but he just couldn’t stand the steady stomp of her footfalls any longer.

           “Hawke, sweetheart,” he sighed, looking up at her. “Please. Stop.” She halted but when her head snapped over to look at him it held a dangerous glare. He attempted weak smile and patted the bed. “C’mere.”

           For a moment she simply held that gaze, all steel and hardness, but then her shoulders slumped. The fight went out of her and she came over and sat beside him. He reached out, carefully, and put his hand on her thigh. He hoped the weight and heat of it was as comforting to her as the solid warmth of her muscle was to him. It was good to touch her, to know she was here.

           “What do we do, Varric?” She asked. Void take him, if he had thought she  _looked_ defeated then her voice was downright desperate.

           He let his thumb move, making small sweeps across her trousers. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. Hawke’s hand reached out slipping under his as she shifted to press herself closer to his side. Despite their height differences Hawke leaned, resting her head of fringed dark hair atop his own.

           “Are you worried?” She asked softly.

           Varric nodded slightly, her head moving with his. “About Blondie? Yeah.”

           “About us,” she clarified. Her voice had gone so low he could barely make out the words. He swallowed thickly. He’d been avoiding that question in his own mind. What Anders coming back would mean for their fledgling relationship. He didn’t want to think about it  _now_  any more than he had wanted to when he saw Anders standing there. But he couldn’t very well ignore her when she was asking him a direct question.

           He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t say  _worried,_ ” he said slowly. “That’s not the appropriate word. Word choice is important in crafting a narrative, Hawke.”

           She huffed softly and lifted her head from his. “Now?” She asked gruffly. “You want to have an argument about semantics  _right now_?”

           He sighed. No. He didn’t. He had fallen into familiar habits in an effort to defend himself. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “No, I’m sorry.” He lowered it, but couldn’t let go. “I’m not worried,” he said finally, “but, yeah. I wonder what this means for our story.”

           Hawke was quiet longer than he would have liked, merely fidgeting beside him until she worked up the nerve to speak. “I just… I wish I knew, Varric. I’m too full of emotions right now. It’s hard to pick out any single one.”

           The dwarf nodded. “I get that,” he said. “Really I do. But…”

           “But?” Hawke asked, turning to look down at him.

           “But, forgive me for being just a tad selfish here, sweetheart.” He shrugged, managed a small smirk. “I’ve gotten used to having you around.”

           That provoked a small chuckle from her and Varric couldn’t help the warmth that swelled in him upon hearing it. It was pride and affection and desire and admiration all in a roiling boil in his chest.

           “Same here, Fuzzy,” she said in a rich voice. She pressed a kiss atop his head.

           “Good to hear,” he managed thickly. He felt a little of the pressure ease then. At least she didn’t want to chuck him. Even if it had been a frivolous fear, it was still a good one to see off. He knew it wasn’t over. He’d seen the way she’d looked at Anders. He’d seen that look directed at himself, recently, though with a tad less disbelief. She was every bit as in love with that mage as she had been the day they parted ways. “So what now?”

           Hawke tilted her head to the side, considering carefully. He was willing to admit he was afraid of her answer. He’d honor her choice, but that didn’t mean it would be easy. The silence was starting to grate on him. “Varric,” she began in a slow, uncertain voice. “Is it okay if I don’t know? I mean. Is it okay if we just see where it goes?”

           He nodded slowly but couldn’t help feeling uneasy, just leaving things up in the air like that. He must not have been as good of an actor as he was a writer, because Hawke wasn’t buying it. She looked at him closely, scrutinizing his face though he refused to look directly at her.

           “It’s not okay,” she said slowly. “You’re still worried.” He felt her slide from the bed to the floor and moved to kneel in front of him. She looked up at him and he felt his heart stop. He almost never saw her like this, looking  _up_  at him. Her face was crinkled with worry, her eyes dark pools shinning with love and pleading for understanding. She was beautiful. His hand reached out, the back of his hand stroking against her cheek out of a reflexive need to smooth the lines and sooth her. He wanted to say something, anything to assure her but all his clever words were lost.

           She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed briefly as warm air escaped her in a long even breath. When she opened them again they looked clearer, more sure. “I still want you, Varric,” she said calmly. His nod was weak and unconvincing, even to him. Her eyes narrowed and she shifted, moving up on her knees and pressing closer to him. “I still want you,” she whispered again. He repeated his action but it only served to make her eyes glint more determinedly.

           She tilted her head and closed the distance between them, capturing his lips in a kiss that was slow and deep like the feel of stone – solid, sure. It took him over body and soul and soon he found he was pushing back and pulling her closer at the same time, letting the slick slide of her lips guide him.

           Her hands slipped under the open breast of his tunic, fingers curling in the thick hair there and pulling appreciative moans from deep within him. His hands slid into her hair, fingertips massaging just behind her ears. He felt her shiver and smile at the same time. Deft fingers worked the clasps at the front of his tunic, baring him to her. Varric pulled back to look at her. She was flushed, lips red and wet, eyes burning with want. And Maker help him, he believed her. “I want you too,” he whispered as he pulled her to him. She followed compliantly easing back onto the bed and drawing him down with her.

           He pressed her back against the bed, leaning over her and letting his lips trail down the expanse of her throat. She was so pale for a warrior. He always expected her to be sun-worn, but her skin was white and creamy. He delighted in her soft sounds of appreciation as his hands slid under the hem of her shirt and found the supple skin of her waist. He let his touch linger there, light and teasing until she made a low sound in the back of her throat. The frustrated growl vibrated against his lips, tickling him and he laughed, leaning back to look down at her. “Something wrong, sweetheart?” He asked as he slid the palm of his hand across her stomach. 

           She huffed at him, but didn’t answer, choosing instead to take advantage of the space he had created between them. Her hands moved down to the bottom of her shirt and she started trying to pull it over her head. Varric, however, was deeply amused at how difficult their current positioning made this simple effort, and thusly refused to move. She managed to pull it about halfway up, exposing her abdomen and ribs, before she could manage no farther. “Ugh,” she grunted, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Varric, either move or help.”

           He briefly considered doing neither, so great was his amusement. “I dunno, sweetheart,” he said with a grin that was going to buy him a world of trouble. “I can see a lot of advantages to leaving you like this.” Then he ducked his head and peppered kisses around her navel. Her reaction was beauty itself, as she wriggled and shrieked, laughing and attempting to push him away.

           “Varric,” she managed between giggles. “Stop! Ah.”

           He did as she asked and shifted his attention lower. His hands fell to her hips, his mouth pressing a firm trail to her sex. Her laughter shifted to a deep moan and she squirmed beneath him. He took advantage of her distraction and unlaced her trousers before returning his hands to their hem, pulling them off in a single swift motion, and taking her smallclothes with them. One of his prouder moments, really.

           “Hawke,” he purred, as he hurriedly clamored back to the apex of her thighs. He rubbed his nose in the short curls just above her already glistening slit and breathed deeply. “You smell delicious.” He glanced up to find her propped up on her elbows, looking down at him with wild desperate eyes, all attempts at removing her tunic had been utterly abandoned. He held that gaze as his fingers spread her open to him. Hawke bit her lip. When his tongue snaked out and pressed a long slow lick to her wet folds her eyes rolled back in her head and squeezed shut before her entire body trembled under his touch and she fell flat onto her back.

           He wanted to stay there forever, reveling in the way she arched into his touch, her mewling cries of pleasure, and the wet evidence of her arousal coating his chin. He pressed two wide fingers inside her and curled them, watching as her body convulsed. His free hand moved to her cup her ass, lifting her slightly so that he might dip his tongue to meet the place where his fingers pumped her dripping heat. He wasn’t giving her the slow build she had anticipated. He was already hard and aching to fill her, to feel the clutching that surrounded his fingers applied to the place he really wanted it.

           If his mouth hadn’t been so busy he would have had a self-satisfied smirk on his face from the way she moved against him, her pelvis rocking steadily up against his face, begging for more friction. He let his fingers thrust harder, matching her pace, curling brush the spot he knew would drive her over the edge. The hand on her cheek squeezed and it was more than she could take. “Varric!” She screamed as her body fell apart around him, instinct taking over. He continued, relentless, as one of her hands fisted in the bedding and the other gripped his shoulder. Every muscle in her body became hard, pulling her so tight she was half-way to sitting up. She  _rode_  his hand and face, shaking with pleasure until the sensation waned and she flopped back gracelessly.

           She was still panting for breath when he crawled up and took her mouth, kissing her, their saliva mixing with the heady taste of her sex. She indulged that kiss, moaning at the taste of herself, pulling him closer and delving her tongue deeply into his mouth, seeking out more. He rocked his hips against her, aching. Her hands slid under his tunic and slid it off before they traveled lower and began pulling at the ties of his trousers. “Roll over,” she managed breathily when the kiss ended.

           He saw no reason to deny her and rolled onto his back on the bed. She undid his lacing deftly, then pulled the breeches down, disrobing him quickly. Generally Hawke preferred to take her time, tease him, touch him and taste him – not this time. As soon as he was bare she climbed atop him, straddling his manhood. He could feel the moisture that had gathered between her legs pressing against the stout length below her.

           Varric wasn’t built like a human. His cock wasn’t all thinness and length. He’d been worried at first. Worried that she would need that to find pleasure. But he quickly found that the somewhat shorter length was no hindrance when paired with his superior girth. The first few times they had had to go achingly slow. Hawke wasn’t accustomed to stretching so wide. But now they’d had plenty of practice.

           She sank down on him in a single slow slide, moaning as he filled her. “Maker’s breath,” Varric gasped, watching her sex swallow him.

           “Fuuuuck,” she drawled. Once seated on him she leaned over and kissed him again as her hips began rocking. He thrust up to meet her as he tangled his hands in the short fringe of her dark brown hair. Slowly, she picked up the pace until they were writhing and moaning.

           She sat up, leaning backward slightly and his cock sank into her, to his sack, as deep as he could get. His hands moved to her hips, clutching her firmly as he pushed up harder. She threw her head back, a soft keening dripping from her open mouth. He could feel her tight depths fluttering around him. She was holding back, waiting for him. He knew it.

           Well, that wasn’t going to do at all. He lifted a hand from her hip and grabbed her right wrist, tenderly guiding her digits to the place where their bodies met. Her eyes opened and she looked down at him.

           “Touch yourself,” Varric said in a voice gone rough with want.

           She furrowed her brow. “But I already…”

           “I want to watch you,” he admitted. “I want to watch you touch yourself and I want to see your face when you come. I want to feel you shaking and hear you screaming and I want to know we found pleasure in each other.” He felt her core shudder at his words. “Touch yourself,” he said again in a low rumble.

           Her hand started moving, fingers dipping down to her entrance, gathering her arousal and pulling it to the top of her opening making her slick. There was nothing reserved about the way she moved, riding him hard, fingers rubbing frantically as he pushed into her again and again, meeting her move for move.

           Soon her breathing had become uneven, her movements desperate. She was muttering his name over and over like a prayer, “Varric, Varric, Varric…”

           He felt it building, the liquid pool in his groin and knew he wasn’t going to be able to hold back. “Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered.

           And she did. He watched as her face crumpled, looking almost pained by the intensity of the pleasure washing over her. She was such a picture in that moment – head thrown back, her breasts, flushed pink and coming to a point in tight rosy nipples, thrust forward, the muscles of her torso pulled tight as her center tried to crush his aching shaft. It was that picture which broke him. His sack tightened almost painfully, and his fingers dug into her thigh as he gripped her tightly and bucked up into her. He spilled himself as her inner muscles tried to pull him deeper still, consuming his seed, making him a part of her entirely, something no one could take. He grunted and groaned, body moving out of primal instinct, his cock shooting stream after stream until he thought he would be sucked dry.

           She collapsed on top of him, her head resting on his shoulder, body shivering. He was shaking too, he realized as he lifted an unsteady arm and wrapped it around her. Aftershocks of their orgasms trembled through them as they held each other tightly. Hawke pressed kisses to whatever bits of skin they found. She was muttering something but he couldn’t hear her, so soft were her words.

           One last kiss fell, and her body sagged. He rolled her over onto her side, his soft length sliding from her. His hand smoothed back her hair and he caught her eye. “I love you, Varric,” she whispered.

           He kissed her, soft and slow, trying to put everything he didn’t have a word for into it. When they parted he rested his forehead against hers and replied, “I love you too.”


	2. Chapter 2

VVV

 

            “What I don’t understand,” Dorian said dryly, sipping from his cup, “is how you managed to convince this spirit to let you come to us at all. Seems to me until now he was operating on self-preservation. It doesn’t fit that he’d let you come here to have us banish him.”      

            Anders sighed audibly. “As I said, I’m not entirely sure myself. Justice seems to have information he isn’t sharing with me. That shouldn’t be possible but I suppose as I have grown weaker he has grown stronger.”

            Dorian had to admit the week of recovery had done Anders good. He was still frighteningly thin, but his skin had lost the pallor it had had when Varric had introduced the mage to the Inquisitor. Of course, now that he was up and about he wanted something from Fitzwilliam. Everyone always did. So if Dorian sounded a little irritated it was because he  _was._  “Well, that’s not worrisome at all,” Dorian grumbled to the man to his left. The Inquisitor nodded curtly in reply. 

            “I’m afraid I agree with Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said. To his credit the man was not unsympathetic to the mage’s plight. “Every minute you are here we put the people of Skyhold in danger.”

            Anders nodded, looking resigned. “I understand, Inquisitor. I… I appreciate you hearing me out.” He turned to leave.

            Just then the door to the war room swung open to reveal a hunched figure and huge ridiculous hat.

            “Cole?” Dorian asked cautiously. He put his cup down and stood. The boy walked forward, eyes searching the room.

            “Anger hot and heavy,” he said in his low, dreamy way. Even so it was thick with rage. “Must make them pay, sacrifices are always required.” His tone shifted suddenly, something softer, nostalgic, “Mother’s hands as she pulls the thread through the fabric, making pictures out of string. Her voice as she hums. No fear in her eyes, not until they come to take me.” He stopped before Anders, lifting a hand to his shoulder. “She tried to hide you.”

            Anders looked afraid and awestruck all at the same time, eyes brimming with tears. “You should not have taken this body,” Cole was saying. “He is not like the boy. Not empty. Not yours to take. You had to share with the anger. Foolish child,” he said the last affectionately.

            “Cole,” Dorian said at last, breaking the odd spell his arrival had cast upon the room. “This is Anders, he’ll be leaving soon.” Cole snapped his head to the right, glaring at Dorian.

             _Well, I certainly got his attention,_  Dorian thought, alarmed.

            “No,” Cole said. “He has to stay.”

            “I’m sorry Cole,” Fitzwilliam said tenderly, as if explaining a hard truth to a child. “He is too dangerous, you don’t know what he’s done.”

            Cole’s eyes glazed over, looking at something far away, past the walls of the room. “Setting the flasks,” he whispered. “Passing the people who would die. Wanting to warn them. The voice in my head.  _Sacrifices,_  it says. The building’s debris falls around me. Her eyes. I betrayed her.” Cole turned back to the men, eyes clear once more. “He killed many people, I see that.”

            Fitzwilliam nodded. “You understand then,” he asked slowly, “why Anders must leave?”

            “I understand why you want him to,” Cole said. “But we can’t do that. We have to  _help_.” His eyes were pleading, begging. Dorian could see Fitz’s resolve crumbling under that gaze. Could feel his ache through the bond.

            “I can’t promise you anything,” Fitzwilliam said at last, and Dorian breathed a sigh of relief. Even by Tevinter’s standards the disheveled mage before them would be considered a terrible risk. Still, Dorian didn’t want to send him away. Not if they didn’t have to. “But I’ll let you make your case, Cole.”

            Cole seemed to consider this for a moment. Dorian understood what was happening in the boy’s mind. He knew how important this was, but he had never quite gotten good at talking the way other people did. He still ran on feeling more than anything and not having the words to convey that could be hard. He had improved by leaps since his arrival at Skyhold, Dorian would admit, but he wasn’t sure Cole had the ability to do something like this, not yet. Of course, that wasn’t going to stop him from trying.

            “There are many spirits,” Cole said slowly. “Some are good a-and some are bad. There are as many kinds as there are feelings. Sometimes you feel like showing mercy,” Cole said, turning that penetrating gaze on Fitzwilliam once more. “I’ve come to the judgments. I can feel you wanting to pardon them, the men who made bad choices. But then you remember who you are. You think of what others expect. And that feeling twists. They make you into someone you are not.”

            Dorian couldn’t help but stare in awe of the teenaged boy. He was lanky, and too tall, and his hair was always a mess, but he understood people. It was a rare gift. The things he was saying now were things Fitzwilliam had only ever said to Dorian, in bed after a day of hard choices, when the man was filled with guilt. But Cole had known. Dorian could see the pain in Fitz’s eyes as Cole spoke.

            “That is what happens to spirits,” Cole continued, trying to tie the parallels into something that made understanding a possibility. “Only you are lucky. Abomination. No one says so when it happens to you.” Cole’s voice was going a little pensive again. “Some men do. Some men make the choices. They cannot live with them. They become the monsters, because they think they are. You are lucky. You have tethers. They hold you. Life line. Keep you who you want to be.” Cole’s voice grew strong, insistent, as he moved to stand before Fitzwilliam. He drew himself to his full height and looked intently into his eyes. “When spirits leave the fade we have no one,” he said. “We are alone. The world doesn’t make sense. It’s foggy and strange. Nothing works the way it should. And it is filled. Filled with things that want to use us. I was so confused. When I came to you, Inquisitor… you helped me.”

            Fitzwilliam put a hand on Cole’s shoulder and squeezed gently. His face was nothing but kindness as he spoke. “Cole,” he said slowly. “You weren’t possessing someone. You hadn’t been twisted. You weren’t…”

            “But I  _was_  a killer,” Cole said emphatically. “Told you. I didn’t understand. Killing. What it meant. You helped me. Taught me. How people work. I want to  _help_.”

            “Fitz,” Dorian said. He kept his voice low, feeling that he was upsetting a delicate calm. “Can I talk to you?”

            Fitzwilliam nodded and let Dorian lead him to the far corner of the room where they talked in hushed whispers, keeping an eye on the two men near the table. “I think we should do it,” Dorian said hurriedly. Fitzwilliam’s eyes blew wide and his mouth fell open to object but Dorian pressed on before he could.  “I’ve found a few volumes I think will be helpful in the library under Skyhold. Cole will be invaluable. And I know you, Amatus. You know the only other choice is to kill the mage. You won’t send him out where he could harm more people.”

            Fitzwilliam let out an irritated huff. “I’ll admit the thought crossed my mind,” he said, “but he would deserve it. That man started the mage rebellion. He killed hundreds of people and his actions lead to the death of Maker knows how many more.”

            “His actions also led to the first society of free mages in Ferelden in ages,” Dorian said emphatically. “I am by no means saying his methods were justified, but we can’t deny the outcome has been beneficial.”

            Fitzwilliam glowered at him. “What he did was  _wrong._ ”

            “No one is arguing with that, Fitzwilliam,” Dorian said gruffly. “I’m only saying he was under the influence. And you’ve set a precedence for committing men to a life of service instead of death.”

            The Inquisitor continued glaring. “Alexius did what he did out of love and blindness, not vengeance!” Their exchange was getting heated. “You heard the way he talked about the circle, about Templars! Just imagine what Cullen will do if he finds out what we’re up to here!”

            Dorian sighed, reaching up and touching Fitzwilliam’s cheek. “Amatus,” he said lovingly, “I will stand behind you, no matter your decision. But I have faith that we can do this. We can redeem the mage, free him from the spirit. You’re the one who told me that ‘each life lost diminishes us.’ I believe that. I believe we should  _try._ ”

            Dorian found Fitzwilliam was turning his head into his touch, closing his eyes, and sighing heavily. But when they opened again, blue and brilliant seeking his own, the weight he had seen there was lessened. “Alright,” he said in a whisper, “but this is going to be hard, and secret, and you’re going to help me or I swear by Andraste’s delicate knickers you will pay.”

            A smile broke across his face as the man spoke and by the end he was kissing him joyfully. It was brief and when they parted Dorian nodded emphatically. “We’re in this together.”

 

VVV

 

            “I fail to see the purpose of this,” Justice grumbled with Anders’s lips.

            Dorian was inclined to agree. They had already endured two weeks of Cole’s “lessons” since the Inquisitor had agreed to the boy’s pleas. Thus far Justice had largely ignored Cole, leading the boy to  _this_  plan. He could see but a few outcomes as a result of introducing Justice and Alexius and none were favorable. By now, however, he knew trying to discourage Cole was an exercise in futility. The boy frowned in the dim light of the secluded cabin. They had to clear two guards and three Templars to get in here, which had surprised Dorian. He had known Fitzwilliam was taking precautions, but when Dorian came on his visits there was only one of each. Meaning the Inquisitor had sent even more when he learned of Cole’s plan. That was probably wise. Dorian could take care of himself, but Cole was a whirlwind with his knives and they had reports of what Justice was capable of. Add in the mess Alexius could cause if he decided to seize a chance at freedom and… well, there was a reason Fitzwilliam was the Inquisitor. Still, Dorian would have liked to know what Cole thought this would accomplish.

            “This is Alexius,” Cole said. “I can feel him, in here.” The boy pressed his fingertips to his temple. “And here.” The fingers moved to his chest. “He hurts. Here.” Cole reached out and grabbed Anders’s hand. Justice’s blue eyes squinted at the boy. “Can you feel it?” He asked.

           Dorian watched the mage’s face shift from confusion to alarm. “His son was dying,” Justice said slowly.

           And then,  _then_  Dorian understood what was happening. Judging by Alexius’s bewildered expression, however,  _he_  did not.

           “His son was dying and he wanted to save him. That is a noble cause.” And as Justice spoke Dorian could see Alexius’s face changing. Thinking of Felix and, presumably, of the lengths he had gone to. The wrongs he had committed. A low growling issued from Justice and Dorian called his power to him, ready to react immediately. “People died,” Justice roared. “You acted with no regard for the lives around you.”

           Alexius was shivering in his chair, huddling in on himself. “I…” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to save my son.”

           Justice wrenched his arm free of Cole’s grasp and it shot out, his hand wrapping around Alexius’s throat. Red light flaring through cracks in the mage’s skin, eyes glowing, glaring. “That is no excuse,” he bellowed. The Templars and the guards burst into the room but Dorian put up a hand, telling them to hold.

           Cole reached out, making skin contact with the spirit once more. “No,” he said softly. “Feel him. Past the fear. He  _hurts_  Justice.”

           Justice’s advance halted, and he tilted his head. “Yes, I feel it.”

           “What else do you feel?” Cole asked.

           Justice took his time responding. “Regret. Loss. Mourning. Why does he live?”

           Dorian was relieved that Vengeance could control himself but the red light did not fade back to blue and that worried him. Could Vengeance be  _reasoned_  with or would he kill Alexius?

           “The Inquisitor decided a life of service would be more fitting a punishment than death,” Dorian explained. “He has been stripped of all rank and influence. He serves the Inquisition as a researcher.”

           “That is not justice,” the spirit groused. “An eye for an eye. A life for a life.”

           “By  _your_  philosophy the whole world would be blind,” Dorian scoffed in annoyance. The stress of the situation was making him dangerously flippant. “Things are not black and white.”

           “Feel,” Cole said again. “His fear for his son. The need to keep him safe. A small boy in a big world needs his father to protect him.” Alexius was crying. It was silent and slow, but the tears fell just the same. “He is a criminal,” Cole continued. “People died. Screaming. Agony. But he wasn’t trying to do it. He just wanted to save his son.”

           Dorian could see a flicker behind Vengeance’s glowing red eyes. Cole must have been acting as a conduit. Taking Alexius’s memories and channeling them to Anders’s body. Was there no limit to the things Cole could do, given the right motivation? He tried to shove that terrifying thought aside.

           “Why do you show me this, Fadeling?” Vengeance growled angrily but it was not hot as it had been a moment ago, there was a hint of sadness.

           “This man,” Cole’s free arm lifted and pointed to a Templar at his right. “Can you feel him? He has taken a vow to protect. But I can feel it. The hatred. The pleasure. He makes them helpless. Then he hurts them. Screeching. Screaming. Begging.”

           And just like that Vengeance’s gaze spun, searing eyes boring into the Templar Cole’s extended finger marked still. “You.” Vengeance spat. “I feel you in my head. You smile, you live as a free man. You abuse your position. You abuse your  _wards_.” The Templar trembled and Dorian could see him readying the dismissive power the Templars commanded. He wasn’t sure it would work on Vengeance, Anders sure, but on the spirit… it was anyone’s guess. “I can feel the  _pleasure_  it brings you.”

           Hot red light lashed out of Vengeance’s upturned palm. The Templar released the disruptive energies but they did not disperse the raw magics the spirit hurled. It struck the chest plate of the Templar’s armor, his eyes rolled back, and his body fell, slack, to the rough wooden floor. Dorian could see the other Templars and the guards looking around. They were conflicted, knowing what they were there to do, but not sure they  _could_  do anything. The spirit did not attack anyone else, but he did turn back to Alexius.

           “You killed him,” Alexius said. His face had gone pale, but he had straightened his back, looking death in the eye even with a face stained by tear trails. The spirit nodded. “Will you kill me, now?” Alexius asked.

           Vengeance tilted his head to the side, considering the question for several moments before shaking it. “No,” he said finally, and the red glow faded back to the blue of Justice’s presence. “Not yet. I will know the fadeling’s lesson.”

           “Good. Bad. These are words of  _mortals_ ,” Cole said, more articulately than usual. Dorian was fascinated with how the boy was changing. “We can see more. Killing the Templar was justice. He had no remorse. He liked hurting them. Can you feel any of that in him?” Cole pointed to Alexius, who still sat with a face of iron.

           “No,” Justice answered immediately. “The mage regrets his actions. He regretted them even then.”

           “People are complex and fragile,” Cole said slowly. “Like wool on a spinning wheel. Piling on the floor. No one to make it into a neat ball of yarn. You have to untangle them. You can’t just pull. They will break.”

           For long minutes Justice said nothing, just stood eerily still and silent, looking past them all, regarding a wall. The guards, Templars, Alexius, and Dorian all waited anxiously. Dorian could fell the nervous sweat beading on his brow. Finally, Justice turned his gaze on Cole once more. “I will think on what you have said,” Justice said. He nodded Anders’s head and a moment later the blue was gone.

           Anders blinked, spotted the Templars, and put his hands up. “Little help, Dorian?” The mage asked, in a nervous chuckle.

           “Return to your posts,” Dorian said. They looked, momentarily, like they might argue but soon they were dropping their hands and sheathing weapons. “And take that one with you,” Dorian spat, gesturing to the useless waste of flesh on the rough cabin floor. The two remaining Templars grabbed him up by armpits and ankles and pulled him away.

           “My gratitude,” Anders’s said, lowering his arms. Dorian gave him a brief nod. Maker, but his heart was pounding. What a tense situation. Anders turned to Cole. “I’ve been trying to explain that to him for years, Cole.” He said, voice full of quiet awe. “How did you get him to listen?”

           Cole’s face turned sour, surprising Dorian. “He couldn’t see the game.” Cole said slowly. “His life was a game of chess, but he only had a queen. Your anger blinded him. He could only see one piece at a time.”

           Dorian whistled long and low. “That’s quite the analogy,” he said finally.

           “It was  _his_  anger that changed Justice,” Cole spat. “A spirit pulled into a world he doesn’t understand. And only  _his_  eyes to see through!”

           Anders head bowed knowingly. “I know,” he said voice pitched in low apology.

           “It hurts you,” Cole replied, the heat gone from his voice. “It hurts him too. Cutting. Confusing. You should not have taken him in.” The mage nodded once more.

           Alexius, finally, stood and cleared his throat. “Unless there was anything else,” he said, “I’d like to return to my research.”

           Cole looked at him and smiled. “You’re lighter now,” he said. “That is good!”

           Alexius managed a small smile at the boy. “We’ll get out of your way,” Dorian said, ushering the men from the room. He turned back and caught Alexius looking at a portrait of Felix. Dorian had seen him look at that canvas many times over the last few months – today was the first time it made Alexius smile.

           He stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind him, and clapped Cole on the shoulder. “Cole,” Dorian said brightly, “I think you might be a genius.”

           “A handsome genius?” Cole asked, bouncing with excitement.

           Dorian laughed low and long, Anders joining in. Cole looked between them, smile bright, if confused. “Sure,” Dorian said, wiping amused tears from the corner of his eyes. “You’re a handsome genius.”

 

VVV

 

            “He  _what?_ ” Fitzwilliam bellowed. Dorian cringed. As well as Cole’s lesson had gone Dorian had known telling Fitz that Justice had struck down a Templar wouldn’t go overly well.

            “I’ve been going around for the last few days making inquiries, just in case. Cole and Justice were right about the man’s actions. He had more than one ‘accidental’ death on his record,” even to him it sounded weak. They couldn’t let Justice run around playing judge and executioner.

            “You waited  _days_  to tell me this!?” Fitzwilliam gesticulated wildly. Dorian tired not to laugh but it was hard. He could tell Fitzwilliam wasn’t angry so much as he was worried. Dorian could feel the difference now. Where once the bond had merely transmitted a feeling of discomfort Dorian could now distinguish distinct emotions. In the past Fitzwilliam had had to be feeling something very acutely for Dorian to read it, now he could pick up on more subtleties.

            “I didn’t want to add more to your plate, Amatus,” he said as soothingly as possible. “Not when I am perfectly capable of handling this.”

            “As am I,” Fitzwilliam said defensively.

            Dorian let out a low chuckle. “Fitz,” he said affectionately, “you’re preparing for the move, you’ve had a desk full of reports since  _before_  Anders arrived. I’m not saying you  _can’t_  do it all. I’m merely saying it may be best not to try, yes?”

            Fitzwilliam sighed and rested his hands on the war room table. “You’re right, I can leave this, largely with you. But we cannot allow the spirit to kill with impunity. The Templar was entitled to a trial.”

            Dorian nodded. “I’m in agreement. I want to help the mage, but with the spirit inside him I’m not sure we can.”

            Fitzwilliam examined the table. It was covered in a large map and on the map marble pieces marked their allies and enemies. The war with Coryphaeus was over, but the Inquisition was a force now, and they had many things which needed to be organized. Dorian’s gaze was drawn, as it tended to be, to the markers on his homeland. Alliance talks with Tevinter had not been going well. Hopefully, once they were there, meeting and schmoozing, things would improve.

           Finally, the Inquisitor nodded and stood. “I’ll need you to talk to Cole,” he said slowly. “I think we need to banish Justice.”

           Dorian’s brows went up at that. “Banish? That’s going to be a hard sell, Fitzwilliam.”

           The man nodded his head in grim agreement. “Yes. But as you said, Dorian, we can’t hope to rehabilitate Anders with the spirit still in him. It’s the only solution I can think of.”

           “And you’re firm in this?” Dorian asked warily.

           “If you think you can find another solution, I am amenable.” He looked at Dorian, hope shinning in his eyes. “Do you? Have another solution?”

           Dorian shook his head. “Afraid not,” he sighed.

           “Pity,” Fitzwilliam replied.

           Dorian nodded once more before moving around the table and taking the Inquisitor’s hand. Their fingers tangled, the familiar tingle of the bond tickling their palms. “I’ll go talk to Cole,” he said softly. Fitz managed a feeble smile and Dorian leaned in, pressing their lips together in a tender lingering kiss. “You just make sure you’re getting all our nugs in a row.”

           “I’ll head to my quarters and start answering missives,” Fitzwilliam agreed. With that, Dorian released the man and made for the door. It was time to find their empathic assassin.

           …

 

            “No,” Cole said, anger flaring hot and harsh, shocking Dorian. “We cannot banish Justice back to the fade.”

            Dorian held out a mollifying hand. “Cole, this won’t kill the spirit. He’ll go back where he came from, where he belongs.”

            “No,” Cole shouted again, sounding like nothing so much as a child throwing a tantrum. “You can’t! I won’t let you!”

            Dorian put a hand on the boy’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. “Okay, Cole, okay. Just… tell me why.”

            Cole looked up at him with eyes that looked far too old for such a boyish face. “If you send Justice back he won’t be. Justice. He’ll forget. He go back to what he was before. You’ll  _kill_  him, Dorian.”

            Dorian smiled sadly at him. “Maybe that’s for the best,” he said softly. “You’ve seen what he’s become. How the anger in Anders has twisted him. He could rest.”

            “If you could go back, undo it all. Untie the love and the hate, all the bad things that happened to you,” Cole asked curiously. “Would you, Dorian?”

            The mage didn’t even need to consider it. Despite all the pain he had suffered, all the scars to which he could lay claim… they had shaped him. “No,” he sighed, dropping his hand from the boy’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t.”

            “Justice doesn’t want to either,” the boy whispered. It struck Dorian then how odd it was to hear Cole talking this way. His desire to help the spirit, and by extension, Anders had pushed him into growing more, learning how to express things, how to talk to people.

            “I’m open to suggestions, Cole,” Dorian said. “We can’t let him stay in Anders, you’ve made it clear that while they’re all tangled together you can’t help either of them. You’ve done a commendable job coaching Justice, but as long as he’s influenced by Anders’s anger, I don’t see you making much progress. You won’t let me banish Justice. So what do we do?”

            Cole was silent for a long time, thinking, pondering. Dorian’s mind had just begun to wander when Cole looked up, smiling. “I know,” he said, joyful, practically bouncing. “We need a body!”

            Dorian could feel the blood draining from his face. “Sorry?” He managed.

            “Like I did,” Cole said. “A mage, one who isn’t going to use their body!”

            Dorian took a step back and flopped heavily onto the bench behind him. “You want me to find a dying mage, and have Justice possess them?”

            Cole nodded. “Yes. That’s what I did. I can help them. I can end their pain. Before they leave Justice can enter. Then he will be like me!”

            Dorian nodded, staring off into the distance blankly. He had to be honest, even coming from a homeland where blood magic was a matter of course, and having, admittedly, dabbled in necromancy, the idea of possession terrified him. To aide in such an act was going to test the limits of his sanity.  _I’m not sure we need any more spirits like Cole,_  he mused.

            “Dorian?” The boy was saying. “Are you alright, Dorian? You feel strange.”

            Dorian shook his head, refocusing on the discussion. “Yes, Cole, I – I’m fine. I’ll need to talk to the Inquisitor about this, you understand.” Cole nodded and Dorian stood, leaving the boy’s corner on the top floor of the tavern and making his way down the stairs to the tavern proper and out the door. The sunlight was dazzling and he had to squint as he made his way back to the Hall.  

            His walk to Fitzwilliam’s rooms was more meandering than he had intended, but his mind was fuzzy with the implications of Cole’s suggestion. It was one thing that Cole had managed it on his own, but teaching other spirits… it could be the end of things as they knew it. Of course he was being slightly dramatic. There were many barriers for any spirit to overcome if they wanted to follow suit. The veil held most spirits in. They needed invitation into a host, a thin spot in the veil, or a Dreamer to find purchase in the waking world. From there they would have to find a mage willing to accept them in, moments before death and the mage would have to actually want to die. The spirit would allow them to recover if they changed their mind and then they would become possessed, probably even abominations if the spirit overpowered them. But he couldn’t deny Cole’s reasoning. Without Anders’s issues Justice would be able to act free of the mage’s motives. If they could manage it, it would be an amazing feat.

            He turned left, opening the door into the walkway and climbing the stair to the Inquisitor’s rooms. He didn’t knock before entering. Why would he? He spent his nights here as well. His rooms were for show, at this point. The door swung shut behind him with an audible click and Fitzwilliam’s head looked up from the papers on his desk. He smiled to see Dorian, and rose, moving to meet him halfway. Maker, but the man took his breath away. At the moment he wore just his undershirt and breeches, forgoing his jacket and going barefoot in the unseasonable heat of the late summer evening. His hair was slightly ruffled, his eyes sparkling, ever-rosy cheeks gone properly red with the summer heat.The balcony doors were swung wide, allowing the setting sun to cast its warm glow unhindered.

            For a moment all the concerns swirling in his head vanished and there was nothing but Fitzwilliam, the smile on his face, the brush of his fingers as he reached for him, and then the warm that always came next, flooding him to his core, making him feel complete. “I missed you, Serah,” Fitzwilliam sighed, resting his forehead against the mage’s. Dorian tilted his head slightly to the right and he dropped a brief kiss on the pink lips before him.

            “Yes,” he sighed when they parted, “I am quite remorseful that I have had to deprive you of my charming companionship.”

            Fitz huffed a small laugh, pecked his lips once more, and then stepped back looking Dorian over approvingly. “Incorrigible,” he said playfully. Then he moved toward the balcony. Dorian followed, luxuriating in the breeze that wafted across his skin. The heat in Skyhold hadn’t been anything near as bad as it was in Tevinter but, Maker, if his suit wasn’t hot as anything. And  _not_  in the “yes I look damn good, thank you very much” way he’d intended. Thankfully the mountain air always felt cool, no matter how hard the sun beat down.  

           Dorian sighed, pouring himself a glass of, what he assumed, had once been chilled tea. It had gone warm and so he dipped a finger in, stirring the liquid and releasing a trickle of power. Cold magic wasn’t his preferred skill, but it did have delightful uses. He lifted the cup to his lips, drinking it half-down in one long slow swallow. When he stopped he noticed Fitzwilliam’s eyes on him, the hungry look there only emphasized by the way he licked his lips. “One day,” he said closing the short gap between them, “I will return here and we will have no business but our own.” He leaned in, slanting his mouth over Fitzwilliam’s. The man’s tongue was hot and insistent. It provided a beautiful contrast as it slipped, against his own, still cool from the tea. They moaned softly when they parted, reluctant to let the moment go.

           “But today isn’t that day,” Fitzwilliam sighed, “is it?”

           “Sadly, no, Amatus,” Dorian replied with an apologetic smile. He dropped one last peck on the kiss-bruised lips before him. He then led the Inquisitor to the chairs at the tea table. They sat. “So,” Dorian began, sipping the tea once more. “I have had a meeting with Cole. As expected he is not amiable to our plan of banishment.” Fitzwilliam nodded once, unsurprised. They had discussed their options the night before. Neither of them really expected Cole to be happy about the decision, but they had agreed to at least try. It was the easiest, least morally compromising choice. “I did  _try_ ,” Dorian assured, “to get him to open up to it, you know.”

           “I imagine even your considerable charm didn’t get it done?” Fitzwilliam asked. He took a sip from his glass and grimaced. Clearly his had gone warm as well. The mage reached over, gently taking the tumbler for Fitzwilliam’s grasp. Before handing it back he repeated his earlier trick. The Inquisitor took a sip, followed by a sound of appreciation that belonged in the bedroom. “I knew I kept you around for a reason,” he said with a wink.

           Dorian chuckled lightly. “I do more than chill drinks you know,” he said suggestively, hiding his grin behind the rim of his own cup.

           “Do you?” Fitz replied playfully. “Well, I’ll have to investigate that. Later. For now, tell me about Cole.”

           Dorian nodded. He was sad the banter had to be put aside for business but that was how things were. “Cole had a different suggestion,” Dorian began warily.

           Fitz sipped his drink but sucked air through his teeth at the finish. “I can tell by your face, Doe. You’re not convinced?”

           “Perhaps you should hear it first,” Dorian said. Fitzwilliam made a gesture for him to continue and the mage relayed the earlier conversation.

           When he was done the Inquisitor let out a long low whistle. “That’s quite the plan,” he managed, throwing back the rest of his tea in a single long pull. Dorian nodded. He turned his empty cup in his hand idly, something to do with the uneasy energy this topic supplied. “Is it possible?”

           Dorian nodded again. “In theory it’s sound,” he admitted begrudgingly. “I’d have to get some details out of Cole. That won’t be  _easy_ , exactly. Maker knows the boy has an odd way of conveying information, but it’s within the realm of possibility. I’m more concerned with finding a… body.” Dorian cleared his throat uncomfortably.

           “Serah,” Fitzwilliam laughed. “You’re a Tevinter mage. Blood magic is a matter of course, and didn’t you once tell me if a party lacked a murder they would sniff and call it a bore?” Dorian shot a glare his way, but it had no heat in it. The man was right, after all. “And yet, you’re squeamish about this?”

           Dorian rubbed the palm of his hand across his mouth. “Yes,” he admitted. “This is us, once more, endeavoring to break the laws of magic. Going into the fade, bringing spirits into our world, traveling through time? Maker’s breath, Fitz!” He huffed heavily.

           “So you think we shouldn’t do it?” Fitzwilliam asked seriously.

           “On the contrary,” Dorian sighed. “I think we should absolutely do it.”

           The Inquisitor furrowed his brow, his confusion plain. “Well then why…”

           “Am I so worried?” Dorian finished the question with a laugh. “Maker, Amatus, sometimes I wish you were a mage.” He refilled his cup and took a sip of the warm tea before continuing. “I don’t like how eager I am to push the limitations,” he admitted somberly. “I convinced myself that my work with Alexius was all theoretical, so it was okay. We see how well that worked out.”

           “Hey now,” Fitzwilliam interjected, reaching over and resting his hand atop the mage’s. “If not for that incident you and I might never have found each other.”

           Dorian’s lips quirked upward in a soft half-smile. “I was coming either way, I think,” Dorian said, turning his hand over and taking the man’s hand in his own, his thumb sweeping gently across the back of his knuckles. “But we had to learn to trust each other very quickly, didn’t we?” Fitzwilliam nodded. “Who knows,” he said ribbing, “I might have found you entirely troublesome had you not proven yourself in action.”

           “I understand,” Fitzwilliam said after a moment. “You’re worried you’ll lose yourself if you press on too far. I can feel it there, just out of the corner of my vision, your anxiety. But Cole was right. We’re lucky. We have tethers. I’ll keep you grounded.”

           Dorian wanted to kiss him, but he knew if he did it wouldn’t stop there and they afternoon would see no progress. It would have to wait. Instead he lifted the hand, turned it over, and pressed a lingering kiss to the palm.

           “So,” Dorian sighed, leaning back and letting go. “What now?”

           “I suppose,” Fitzwilliam said, “you and Cole figure out how to get Justice into a body. And then how to make him human enough to stay autonomous.”

           “Yes,” the mage pondered. “That could be an issue. If Justice doesn’t take to it as Cole did, if he doesn’t start becoming a  _person_  then he will face the concerns Cole did. He could be bound to someone’s will.”

           “So let me get this all straight,” Fitz said leadingly. “Before we leave for Tevinter we have to: finish the lyrium device,” he began ticking the items off on his fingers in that odd way of one-handed counting he favored. “Perfect the Transmitters, get a body, get Justice out of Anders, get Justice  _into_  the body, teach Justice to be a person, deal with the sentencing of Anders for the crimes at Kirkwall,  _and_  sort things with your family.” When he finished his middle finger and thumb were pressed together in a circle, his other digits sticking out wildly. “That’s only eight odds to conquer,” he said with a wicked grin. “Life after Coryphaeus  _is_  simpler!”

           Dorian rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “I suppose I’ll spend my night in the elf’s old study,” Dorian said. “I know he took notes about Cole, and he didn’t come back for anything…”

           He didn’t  _see_  Fitzwilliam shifting uncomfortably so much as he  _felt_  it. An unsettling feeling up his spine, like an insect under his clothing. They tended to avoid talking about Solas. He’d vanished after the Orb broke and Coryphaeus fell. No trace, no letter. Nothing but the ominous “No matter what comes, I want know you shall always have my respect.”

           “Yes, well,” Fitz said uneasily, “as long as you don’t spend the whole night. All too soon we’ll be in Tevinter and playing their games.”

           Dorian lips twisted at that. He hated that plan. Every rebellious, stubborn, revolutionary bone in his body wanted to arrive and declare the Inquisitor his lover. But in this, as in many thing, Fitzwilliam had a point. He could not garner the favor he needed if he was as brazen as that. He had to at least act as if he were playing fair. Doing what was expected. “I’m still not convinced you ought to be working whilst we are there,” Dorian said. “An assassin? I know you’re clever and light-footed, and Maker  _knows_  you’ve killed enough people, but it’s a serious business in Tevinter. A regular part of politics. And unknown upstart is going to draw attention.”

           Fitzwilliam grinned mischievously. “Leliana has done her part better than you can imagine, Dorian,” he said lightly. “We talked on it today. When we arrive I will have a new name, a new history, and references. It’s up to me to play the part, of course,” he added, “but Leliana has made me as well-known as any assassin can be and still be desirable.”

           “I’m not sure I like that any better,” Dorian muttered. “What are these details, anyway?”

           The man shook his head. “We agreed, Dorian. You aren’t to know about my alias.”

           He knew he was right, but it irked him all the same. Fitzwilliam was going into danger and Dorian could do nothing to help. He couldn’t even know the assassin’s name. “Well then,” he sighed, standing. “I suppose I ought to begin researching. So I don’t miss our supper.” He managed a small smile for the man as he moved before him and leaned over. “Give us a kiss,” he said coaxingly. Fitzwilliam complied, lips soft and teasing. Not nearly enough pressure to be satisfying, naturally, merely hinting at things to come. “Cheeky,” Dorian called back over his shoulder as he walked into the chambers and to Solas’s old study.

 

VVV

 

           “I’ve told you before,” Anders grumbled to Cole. It had only been a day since Dorian had informed him of the plan. Personally, Anders would have loved to boot Justice from his body. Of course, the bloody spirit couldn’t just cooperate. “I cannot just will Justice to come out. He has a mind of his own.” Cole nodded as if he understood but he didn’t, he just tried again.

           “Why are you so angry?” He asked, blue eyes, a blue so light they were nearly white, searched Anders’s. “What keeps you here?”

           Anders sighed in frustration. “Justice doesn’t want to talk to you,” he tried to explain again.

           “Not the spirit,” Cole said. “You. The man. What keeps you here?”

           “I don’t feel like talking about that,” the mage gruffed, turning away.

           “I was a boy before I was me,” Cole said slowly. “Apostate. That’s the word. They captured me. Templar. Locked me in a tower. Forgot.” His voice held such pain that Anders found himself turning back to look at him properly. “That’s when I found me,” he continued dreamily. “A broken body, bloody, banged on the stone cell, guts gripping in the dank dark. Can’t stand even to piss in the bucket.” He paused, breathing heavily and when he resumed his voice was tight. “I wanted to help. Wanted to ease the pain. Pain that called and cut. Drew me to the boy. But the boy wanted to go.” Cole let out a low moaning keen.

           Suddenly, the power shifted. Anders could feel it, Justice waking, and he didn’t fight it. He slipped into the background of his own mind to let the spirit emerge. An observer. “The boy must be avenged,” Justice roared to life. Cole flinched and shook his head.

           “Hello Justice,” he boy said softly. The spirit, eyes glowing, skin cracked and emitting the blue glow, tilted its head to the side taking Cole in. “I found the man,” he admitted. “The one that killed me. I found him. I pointed the crossbow. I pulled the trigger. I did not hesitate.” Justice nodded Anders’s head approvingly. “I thought I would feel better,” Cole continued uneasily. “But the hurt did not stop. It did not help. You can’t just make it all go away.”

           Justice was quiet for a long time but Anders could feel him pondering what the boy had said. The vengeance they had wrought in Kirkwall had not appeased the spirit. They both knew that much. Finally, Justice spoke, voice gravely and otherworldly as ever, “No,” he replied, “one cannot just make it all go away.” Justice recognized something in the boy, Anders realized. Recognized one of his own. “What did you do,” Justice asked, “to stop the pain?”

           Cole shook his head. “The pain never goes away,” Cole said. “Not for any of them. But helping helps. And…” he trailed off, looking pensive. “How to say it?” He muttered under his breath. “I know there’s a word…” He muttered a series of words which he discarded immediately. Justice waited, uncharacteristically patient. “Purpose,” he said softly. Then again, loudly, a grin stretching his face. “That one. Those sounds!  _Purpose,_  Justice.”

           Justice screwed Anders’s face into a confused mess. “What of it?” 

           “That is how the waking people do it. How they avoid being twisted or bound. They find purpose. If you can find it,” Cole said excitedly, “you can be  _you._  You won’t have to be  _him_!”

           “And what is your purpose, Cole?” Justice asked venomously.

           “I help,” Cole said easily. “Sometimes Varric or Sera helps me help.”

           “I do not wish to help,” Justice growled.

           Cole shook his head. “You do. That’s why you destroyed the building in the city. You thought the mages would be better off. I can see it.” Anders could feel Cole poking around inside. It was weird enough having Justice in there, the boy was making it downright crowded. “You wanted to help, but the anger was too strong. Demons are bound when you tell them what they are so loudly that it's all they can hear. They have to be what you want. Anders was angry. Wanted you to be angry.”

           “Look around you, fadeling,” Justice growled. “All through this keep you see free mages. That is because of what I did. What Anders and I did in Kirkwall made this a possibility.”

           Cole cocked his head to the side. “No,” he said roughly. “You did not do this. The Inquisitor did this. He saw the mages scattered. Hunted. Frightened animals desperate and rabid. You turned them into that,” his voice had gone low and angry. If Anders had been in control of his own body at the moment he was sure he would have shivered. Justice did not shiver, but he could feel the uneasiness Cole’s words brought the spirit. Cole blinked back the anger, voice soothing once more. “The Inquisitor saw the need. They needed help. He gave it to them. Gave them safety and that gave them back their minds. Their human minds. They didn’t need to be animals anymore. Nor slaves. They became something new. They became men.”

           Cole paused for a moment, tilting his head, and Anders could feel the boy poking around inside his mind, looking for reasons and pain. He found it a moment later. “You think you can change the world with grand plans. Big gestures. Explosions and wars. That’s wrong.” The boy reached out, touching a vein of blue on Anders’s face. “It happens one person at a time. One less pain the world. One man, elf, dwarf, child, woman. Wherever you go there is pain. Wherever you are you can help. You can  _choose_. Who do you want to be, Spirit of Justice? A willing slave?” The hand fell away.

           “I am not bound,” Justice argued once more, but the fire had gone out of his voice, his conviction fading in the face of the reality of his actions.

           “You are different,” Cole said calmly. “Not because  _you_  chose it. You are not your own. What word would you use? Demons are bound when you tell them what they are so loudly that it's all they can hear. They have to be what you want,” he said again, voice heavy with something deep and unfathomable.

 _Maker_ , Anders thought. He could  _feel_  Justice accepting that truth. He wanted to deny it, but something about the boy spoke to him. Anders could feel that too. The boy’s touch, soothing something in both the spirit and Anders himself.

           “I do not wish to be a slave,” Justice said finally. “No matter how willing.”

           Cole’s face lit up, a beaming, goofy, smile splitting it, “You do not have to be,” he said. “With purpose, we can free you. You can free yourself.”

           And then Anders witnessed something he would never have even dared to dream. Justice reached out, resting Anders’s scared hands on Cole’s shoulders. “Then I wish to find a purpose,” the spirit said. His voice was gentle, tender, and it held longing. Anders could feel it between them, a desire in the spirit to find who he was. “Will you show me little fadeling?”

           Cole’s smile was brighter than Skyhold’s aurora on a new-moon night. “Yes,” he said excitedly. “I will!”

 

            …

 

           “No,” Leliana sighed again. Fitzwilliam felt the familiar tingle of annoyance with her tone. He was the Inquisitor. Yet, when they trained she acted as if he were a  _child_. Still, the training was a welcome break from the chaos of his daily duties. Somewhere in Skyhold Cole was working on Justice and Dorian was researching how to do the impossible. And he was here, being spoke to like a particularly stupid student. He was convinced that any moment now, Leliana would pull out a dunce cap and sit him in the corner. “I don’t understand why you keep asking this,” she continued, seemingly oblivious to his rolling eyes and clenched jaw. “Clothing is  _not_  a disguise. Anyone can teach you how to pick the right robes. Dorian, as a matter of fact, would be far  _better_ suited to that task than I, Inquisitor. Tevinter fashion is not high on my list of expertise.”

           “I’m asking,” Fitz practically growled, “because I need to be able to blend in, Leliana.”

           She blinked at him for a moment then broke out into a long roiling laugh. “Is that all?” She finally managed, hand pressed against her stomach as she struggled to regain her composure. “Have you not heard the expression? The clothes don’t make the man, Inquisitor. The man makes the clothing.”

           He furrowed his brow. “I don’t follow,” he admitted.

           “Consider this,” she said, gesturing to her own outfit. She was in rags today. Street clothing. “Do I look like I belong in these clothes?”

           He shook his head. “Of course not,” he said. “You look like you’re trying to be inconspicuous, but one look at how you are carrying yourself tells me you aren’t what you seem to be.”

           “Exactly!” She said excitedly, her lips pulling up at one corner into a satisfied smirk. “The clothing is useless unless you know how to wear it.” She closed her eyes, took a slow deep breath and  _shifted._  It was hard to see, even looking right at her as he was. Her shoulders drooped slightly, her arms pulled in on herself, her feet shifted from a well-balanced position, her toes pointing outward at opposite directions. When her eyes fluttered open they darted around the room. She was looking for threats, but knew not to let her gaze linger for too long in one spot lest she attract unwanted attention.

           She was, every inch, a street urchin. And it had nothing to do with the clothing.

           She looked at him and winked and suddenly she was shifting again. Shoulders pulled up and back, her chin lifted, her eyes became hard and commanding. Her feet planted in a way that had nothing to do with running or fighting. She was merely unmovable because she chose to be. He hands folded in front of her in a way that seemed to project a kind of feigned patience. A woman hearing a plea that would not sway her from her duty. Her eyebrows lifted in silent question, a dare.

           She was dressed in a pile of rags but she was in charge. She could have been a queen. An empress. And not a speck of gold to be seen.

           He blinked, and she was Leli again, smiling and nodding. “You see?”

           “Well,” Fitzwilliam said slowly, “there’s no way I’m going to manage  _that_  before I depart.”

           Leliana’s laugh was startling. “You don’t just  _learn_  that in a day, Fitzwilliam,” she said affectionately. “I’ve been giving you every tool you need to manage that. The last several seasons, every exercise, every mission, you’ve picked up one more piece of the game. We’re at the end of your training. It’s time to learn how the pieces  _move_ , your worship.”

           Fitzwilliam felt a tingle of excitement and anticipation. He had known Leliana was the right choice, but he hadn’t realized exactly how good she was until this moment. She was going to see him ready to take on Tevinter from the shadows.  

 

           …

 

           Dorian found he was wandering somewhat aimlessly at the moment. Fitzwilliam was in a session with their Spymaster, Dorian had done so much reading regarding the ritual they intended to attempt that his eyes could no longer focus on the words,  _and_  until Leliana found them a suitable mage there was little he could do to prepare. For now it was all theory. So Dorian meandered here and there, looking in on people and attempting to stave off boredom.

           He didn’t really notice he was headed to the undercroft until he felt the chill. Down here even the hot summer sun didn’t penetrate. He heard voices, somewhere under the rushing of the waterfall that fell outside the chamber. They stilled when he came to the landing at the end of the stair.

           “Can we help you, Master Pavus?” Dagna’s enthusiastic voice floated up to him. He stifled a grimace at the moniker, nodded, and moved to join the group. Alexius and Dexsius sat together, pouring over notes and diagrams. They glanced up at him briefly. They looked half like he was interrupting them, and half curious as to his purpose but quickly returned to their conference.

           “How is it progressing?” He asked without preamble.

           “Enchantment!” Sandal called from his place across the expanse of the table.

           Dorian smiled at the dwarf, “That’s good to hear.”

           “It’s going well,” Dagna said. “The Transmitters are working perfectly. We sent one to Orlais, a while back, to the Empress. She has been  _hounding_  us about the latest in Ferelden fashion.”

           Dorian poked at the rune-encrusted stone pillar. It didn’t  _do_  anything, but he believed her that it did. Apparently, the Transmitter allowed them to speak, instantly, over fast distances. It was truly brilliant. “The Empress has terrible taste in clothing,” Dorian smirked. “She could do with a few tips.”

           “I’ll be sure to come get you next time,” Dagna winked.

           Dorian winked back, sending the girl blushing, and moved to the black bear-sized chunk of lyrium. It had been split in half, and polished smooth on the outside where is was decorated in delicate, scrolling rune-work. The inside was hollowed and rough, light glinting off of a thousand sand-like growths, all glowing a faint blue.

           “The Warren,” Dagna said reluctantly, “remains challenging.”

           Dorian walked about it, circling, examining. “What seems to be the issue?”

           “Well,” Dagna began, “right now it works… basically.”

           “Basically?” Dorian asked leadingly.

           The dwarf nodded. “It does transfer any object we’ve tried from one to the other, and it’s been consistent no matter how far we send the opposite half, so that’s great. But…”

           “But?” he asked, quirking a brow.

           “Inanimate objects appear on the other end every time. But two out of every ten living objects we’ve sent never arrive.” He sounded more than a little shaken by the event.

           “Any theories about why that might be?” Dorian asked.

           The two mages at the table paused their discussion. “I think it has to do with the Fade-link,” Dexsius said. “Some of the creatures we have sent seem to be able to break through the barrier between worlds.”

           Alexius scoffed and Dorian turned to address him. “You don’t agree?”

           “That nugs can pop into the fade?” he scoffed. “Of course I don’t agree. It’s far more likely that something from the  _Fade_  is breaking through and  _taking_ them.”

           Dorian felt a chill down his spine. “That,” he said slowly, “is  _not_  what we want.”

           Everyone at the table nodded, even Sandal.

           “We’re working on a few tactics,” Dexsius said. He seemed to be  _attempting_ to sound reassuring, but it wasn’t terribly convincing.

           “Enchantment,” Sandal said again. Dorian looked at him, waiting. The dwarf huffed and moved to a slate board they had set up. He lifted a chunk of mineral talc and began drawing. It was beautifully detailed and, somehow without labeling anything, incredibly clear. Dorian could see what he was trying to explain. When it was done the dwarf turned to look at them.

           “Maker,” Alexius gasped in awe, “the boy is a prodigy.”

           Dorian moved to the board, examining it more closely. The reason the Warrens worked was because the be-runed lyrium opened up a path through the fade. The problem with that was anything entering the fade drew attention. Inanimate objects wouldn’t register but anything with a consciousness, even one as rudimentary as an animal’s, would be like a beacon. It would draw demons of the fade to it like moths to flames. The time in the fade was very short, no more than a second, and the path it chose was at random, so the spirits could not just set up camp and wait, but it seemed like once in a while they were quick enough to snatch a traveler.

           The diagram Sandal had laid out looked like nothing so much as a huge net, though it seemed it would also act as a mirror. It would serve a dual function. Firstly, it would protect them, keeping the spirits out, unable to reach in. Secondly, it seemed it would reflect the fade back at any spirits that did manage to come upon them in transit. Therefore the spirits would not even feel their consciousness. It was brilliant in its simplicity.

           Dexsius and Alexius were abuzz with the possibility, already sketching out notes and design on scraps of paper on the table. Whether spirits were grabbing travelers up, or the travelers were breaking through, Sandal’s concept would put an end to it.

           Dorian smiled and clapped the dwarf on the shoulder. “Excellent work,” he said fondly.

           “Enchantment!” Sandal replied.

 

VVV

 

           “Doesn’t seem like much of a ritual,” Fitzwilliam commented as he arranged the room. He heard Dorian sigh.

           “That’s because it’s not,” he explained. “Not really. The girl is dying, Justice  _wants_  to leave. No ritual is needed.”

           Fitzwilliam lit another candle. “Then what’s all this mumbo jumbo for?”

           “Mombo jumbo?” Dorian asked, scandalized. “Amatus,  _please!_  I spent a week planning this and you call it ‘mombo jumbo’?” But Fitz just looked at him evenly, patiently waiting. “Fine, I’ll explain,  _again_. But you  _must_  promise to pay attention this time.” Fitzwilliam nodded. “Very well. I will make this as easy to understand as possible.”

           Dorian set down the jar of paint on a wooden crate and walked close to the Inquisitor. “Everything we can see or touch or feel or hear,” he said in a low voice that made Fitzwilliam quiver, “is made of energy. All of it. This,” he said, reaching out and running a finger down the man’s neck. “And this,” he mumbled as he blew hot air across his ear. “And this,” he whispered, leaning close and kissing Fitz passionately, his tongue invading his mouth and tangling teasingly with his own. His hands slid lower, wrapping around his hips and pulling their bodies tight. It was far too brief. As the mage pulled his lips away to continue his explanation Fitzwilliam whimpered in protest. The mage smirked, but pressed on regardless, “It is all energy put to purpose. In the fade the energy flies about, aimless. That is why we can grab some, and shape it. Into growth,” he said huskily, pressing his hips closer to the Inquisitor’s, making the type of growth he was insinuating quite clear. “Or fire,” he growled playfully.

           Fitzwilliam nodded. “So, we’re designing a purpose?” He asked shakily.

           Dorian’s eyes, hooded with lust, crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Precisely. The girl will die, Justice will willingly depart Anders. We don’t need to force anyone out or anyone in. All they need is a bridge, Amatus,” the mage purred into his ear. “A connection.” His hips rocked slightly against the Inquisitor’s and Fitzwilliam could not suppress the small sound of want that the action pulled from his throat.

           “Whe – ” he swallowed hard, and strove to sound more composed. “When will the ritual happen?”

           Dorian shrugged, his hands still resting on Fitzwilliam’s hips, thumbs stroking absently. “When the girl is nearly gone. Could be anytime now. Best we finish setting up.” He pulled free of the man and the Inquisitor felt colder, as he always did when the mage’s skin was not touching his own. He watched as Dorian moved, brushing paint along the walls in elaborate symbols. He could see every muscle in his bared arm even in the dim lighting. He suppressed the urge to stride across the room, throw the paint down, and tackle Dorian atop it. Dorian must have felt his eyes on him because he turned around and smirked. “Get the candles set up, Amatus,” he said impishly. “The sooner we are done here, the sooner we can…  _retire_  for the evening.”

           Maker knew he needed no more motivation than that. Fitzwilliam finished his tasks quickly but Dorian’s it seemed, were more intricate. The Inquisitor was left with two choices, sit and do nothing whilst the mage completed his drawings or return to the keep and do a little work. Considering how quickly their departure date was approaching, Fitzwilliam opted for the latter. He was just leaving the crisp night air and entering the hall when Josephine flagged him down.

           “Inquisitor!” She called, rushing to him. “I’ve received a missive that requires your immediate attention,” she said through winded breaths.

           Fitzwilliam crinkled his brow. “What now?” he asked irritably.

           She lowered her voice and leaned closer, body language indicating to him the urgency and sensitivity of the mater more clearly than words could. “It is about the new mage,” she whispered.

           Fitz nodded. “Let’s go to your office,” he said softly. 

 

           …

 

           Fitzwilliam was pacing in his chambers, the missives still scattered around his desk. Every once in a while he would stop and re-read one. Sadly, the words never changed. Dorian was on his way, he knew. He could feel the man getting closer, the sense of him in the bond growing stronger as he approached. He was running his hands through his hair when the door swung open and Dorian entered.

           “I apologize for my tardiness,” he was saying with an audible smirk, “but I didn’t think you’d be as distressed as all that.” He walked to Fitzwilliam, smile fading. He could feel his concern growing. “Amatus, has something happened?”

           Fitzwilliam couldn’t help the small, bitter, laugh he barked. “Aside from the dozens of reports we’ve been receiving about  _new_  rifts opening across the Waking Sea?” He asked rhetorically.

           “You said those were likely old rumors coming in,” Dorian replied anyway. “That with the Breach closed they should start dissipating?”

           Fitz nodded and continued his pacing. “Yes, that was the theory. It seems to have been in error, however. Something has changed, but I’ll be blighted, we can’t discover  _what_.”

           “That is troubling,” Dorian agreed. “But I get the feeling there is a more pressing concern?” Fitzwilliam shuffled through the papers on the table before snatching up the correct one and thrusting it into Dorian’s hands. He continued pacing as he read. Soon the mage had let out a long low whistle. “They can’t be serious,” he said at last, depositing the sheaf back on the desk.

           “They’re serious,” Fitzwilliam sighed. “The Council of Kirkwall has asked that the Inquisitor, as an unbiased party in the matter, pass judgement on Anders.” Honestly, he had been expecting to hear from them sooner. It had taken them a little over a month to send word. He had expected that word to be “return the mage to us for judgement” not “have fun doing our dirty work”, but he had still expected it sooner.

           “But what about Varric and Hawke?” Dorian asked, brow furrowed, his fingers stroking his chin. “They had quite a hand in what happened there, if even half of Varric’s tales can be believed. Why aren’t they on trial?”

           “I asked Josephine the same thing,” Fitzwilliam admitted. “She said Varric’s rebuilding efforts earned him a pardon from the Council. Hawke’s assistance with the Breach and the Order of the Seekers’s influence earned hers, apparently.”

           “What are you going to do?” Dorian asked seriously.

           “I’m going to judge him.” Fitzwilliam felt the weight of those words like a millstone around his neck. He moved to the couch and sat heavily. “He’ll get a better deal from us than from the Council.”

           Dorian sat beside him and took his hand, fingers playing across his palm. It was soothing, in a ticklish sort of way. “And how will you find him, Amatus?”

           Fitzwilliam felt conflicted. Anders had done what he had done for good reasons. And though it was tempting to blame Justice, the mage  _had_  known what he was doing and consented to following through. “I suppose,” he said slowly, sounding unsure even to his own ears, “that depends on how the ritual goes. Do I have to pass judgement on both Anders and Justice because they are still joined? If so… I do not see a favorable outcome.”

           He could see Dorian flinch, though the mage tried to hide it by ducking his head to press his lips to the knuckles of the hand he held. “I know you will make the right choice,” he said when he looked up. His smile may have held a glimmer of sorrow, but Fitzwilliam could  _feel_  the confidence in those words. “I do not delight in seeing these decisions weigh on you,” he admitted. “But you are good…” The mage leaned in and dropped a short peck on his lips. “And kind…” Followed by another kiss. “And wise…” And a third. “And devilishly handsome,” he drawled playfully. “Trust me,  _I_  would know.” And then the cad winked. Despite it all Fitzwilliam found himself grinning from ear to ear. “That’s better,” Dorian purred. His lips brushed against the shell of his ear and Fitzwilliam felt a tingle run up his spine. If Dorian had his way they’d fall right into bed.

           Unfortunately, their business was not yet concluded. “There was also a missive from your father,” Fitzwilliam said hurriedly.

           The mage let out a loud sigh and leaned back against the arm of the couch sulkily. “Venhedis, you’ve a talent for killing the mood, Fitzwilliam,” he groused.

           Fitz smiled apologetically and squeezed Dorian’s hand. “Seems our accommodations are coming along.”

           “Terrific,” Dorian drawled sarcastically. “Living under my parent’s roof… alongside the man with whom I spend my nights. That’s going to be just lovely.”

           Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a belladonna,” he said with a smirk. “It will go far better than you think it will.” He tugged on Dorian’s hand until the mage deigned to comply and allowed Fitzwilliam to put his arm around him.

           "So you heard from father about our journey?" He asked. Fitz nodded. "And what about mother?" He could feel the wariness in the bond. His mother was not something they often discussed. Until their trip had grown imminent Dorian had hardly said a thing about her. He had no clue what kind of terms the two were on.

           He sighed, pulling Dorian closer and resting his head against the mage’s. "She declined to respond to any of my messages. But that's fine. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

           Dorian snorted a derisive laugh. "My mother is not a bridge, Amatus, she's the darkspawn hiding beneath it."

           “You don’t really talk about her,” Fitz said cautiously. “Do you not get on?”

           “She was not best pleased with my departure, no,” Dorian huffed.

           Fitzwilliam pressed a kiss to Dorian’s cheek, feeling the stubble there scratch gently against his lips. He tried to think of something to say, words of sympathy or support, but he was lacking. Instead he placed a hand under Dorian’s chin and coaxed his lips closer until he could drop a slow kiss upon them. Dorian sighed, his body relaxing, following the familiar steps. Fitzwilliam continued until all the tension had eased, then broke away and smiled. “Shall we to bed, Serah?” The words dripped with suggestion, though he did his level best to keep his face as casual as possible. The spike of lust through the bond gave him his answer before Dorian had even spoken.

           “Yes,” he purred. “Let’s.”

           They were both mostly undressed by the time they made it to the large sleigh bed. Bits of clothing made a scattered trail or boots and shirts behind them. Dorian was hopping on one leg while removing his trousers and Fitzwilliam smiled at him. The mage looked up, spotted the grin, and narrowed his eyes. “Are you mocking me?” he asked.

           Fitzwilliam affected a face of innocence and shook his head, eyes wide. “I would  _never_ ,” he replied, somewhat overdramatically.

           Dorian, now clad in only the small slip of silky fabric that made up his undergarments,  _charged_  the Inquisitor, knocking him onto his back on the bed. He lay atop him for only a moment, their bare chests pressed close, before sliding down and removing the, apparently, offensive clothing which remained on Fitzwilliam’s person. Off came the cream-colored trousers and matching smallclothes and out came Fitz’s half-hard cock. Dorian threw the garments aside before leaning over, dropping his jaw, and taking the length into his warm wet mouth.

           Fitzwilliam let out a sigh and closed his eyes. Dorian was  _very_ good at this. He suckled and licked, and, once his attentions had brought the man below him to full arousal, fisted base of his cock as his mouth moved up and down.

           The Inquisitor wanted to watch but every time he tried to open his eyes Dorian swirled his tongue, or relaxed his throat and pulled him deeper still. So he had to settle for burying a hand in Dorian’s hair, mussing it, and rocking his hips in time to the mage’s attentions. Dorian took a sick pleasuring in bringing him just to the brink and then abruptly changing direction so that he teetered but didn’t fall.

           After the fourth time Fitzwilliam couldn’t take it anymore. “Andraste’s sacred ashes, Dorian!” he shouted, hips lifting off the bed in an attempt to follow the mouth Dorian had pulled away. “If you don’t get up here and take me I’m going to have to cheat.” He let the mark flash green, briefly, to back up his threat.

           Dorian chuckled, but stood, motioning for the man to make room for him on the bed, as he retrieved a vial from the chest beside it Fitzwilliam obliged, moving to the center of the mattress. Dorian climbed over to him and kneeled between his legs smiling wickedly. “Don’t you dare keep teasing me,” Fitzwilliam scowled.

           Dorian smirked, but said nothing as bit the cork of the vial, pulling it free with an audible “pop” before pouring a generous amount into his hand. Generally, Dorian preferred to oil his fingers and press them inside, slicking and stretching the Inquisitor. This time, however, it seemed the mage had other plans. The oiled hand reached down and Dorian grabbed his own hard length. The skin and purple head shimmered brightly, candlelight glinting off the oil. The mage’s head rolled back and he let out a deep groan as his hips bucked to meet his hand.

           Fitzwilliam propped himself up on his elbows and watched, utterly bewitched by the sight. Dorian seemed to be radiating soft light. His olive skin moved over the bunched muscles of his chest and shoulders as if it was straining to contain them. The flat slab of his stomach twitched as his cock reacted to the attention it was receiving. His body, held upright by the strength of his muscled thighs, rocked slowly, hypnotically. The steely contours of his arms standing out with the exertion of touching himself.

           Fitz tore his eyes from where they lingered, watching that slick hand, and dragged them back up to Dorian’s face, only to find him watching with a leering smile. “See something you like, Amatus?” he drawled. Fitzwilliam’s manhood twitched and Dorian, seeing the reaction, smirked.

           The Inquisitor nodded, tongue coming out to moisten his lips. “You’re a vision,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice. The mage’s smile softened then from one of self-assured confidence to something more like affection.

           He ceased his actions and leaned over, capturing the other man’s lips with his own. Their tongues tangled playfully for a moment and then Dorian pulled away saying, “Lie down.” Fitz did not need any further instruction on the matter. He lowered himself to the bed.

           He heard the cork again and a moment latter felt the prodding, inquisitive touch with which he was so familiar. Dorian eased a finger inside him sliding easily, slicking him, before adding another. Fitzwilliam moaned, pressing his face to the side and into a pillow. Then the mage curled his fingers on the outstroke and molten heat seared his body as they passed over that place inside him that sent him trembling. Somewhere far away he could hear Dorian’s low chuckle of approval.

           Fitzwilliam would have said something angry but just as his senses were returning he felt the pressure of Dorian’s member at his entrance. A moment later the mage was groaning as he slid inside, filling him, and all was forgiven.

           Fitzwilliam pulled his knees up slightly so Dorian could stretch out over him. He did, bracing himself on his hands over the Inquisitor as he held his position buried inside him. He kissed him once more and then began the slow steady rocking of his hips that drove Fitz wild. It felt amazing, the fullness, the friction, the heat flesh on flesh. And beneath all that Fitzwilliam could feel  _him_. Dorian. Through the bond he could feel an echo of what the mage was feeling – tight heat and control and love. And he knew Dorian could feel him too – fullness and openness and, yes, love. Love echoing back and forth growing in volume as the pleasure built.

           Fitz arched his back, angling his hips in such a way that Dorian muttered a muted, “Fasta vass,” under his breath and picked up the pace. The Inquisitor reached up, hands finding the hard lines of musculature that made up Dorian’s bicep, squeezing and sliding up to his shoulder, taut with effort, before wrapping under his arm and digging his nails into his back. Dorian growled into his ear, nipping at his neck before leaning back and untangling himself.

           Fitzwilliam made a sound that was certainly  _not_  a whimper at the loss of contact. Dorian, cruelly, ignored him and repositioned himself, pulling the Inquisitor’s knees over his shoulders and seating his cock entirely within him drawing a deep moan of pleasure from them both.

           The pace he set then was ruthless. Fast, but not hard, and maddeningly even. No matter how Fitzwilliam squirmed or twisted the rhythm did not falter. He wouldn’t speed up, nor would he give the thrusts the pressure needed to really drive him home.

           Finally, nearing desperation, Fitzwilliam panted, “Please, Dorian.”

           Dorian grinned, gaze hot and heavy, delighted with having drawn those words from his lover. The mage rocked his hips just so, cock sliding over the place his fingers had tortured earlier and Fitzwilliam felt the pleasure rolling through him. Dorian, spread his knees a little, creating a stable foundation for himself. An arm wrapped around Fitzwilliam’s left thigh, pinning him, as the mage shrugged off his right leg. It fell to the bed, bent at the knee, foot planted so that he could meet Dorian thrust for thrust.

           Dorian grunted and dropped his left hand down, fingers grasping Fitzwilliam’s cock, hard as steel and dripping with arousal. The firm grip synced up with the mage’s thrusts and Fitzwilliam squeezed his eyes shut as the sensation threatened to overcome him.

           “Ahh,” Dorian drawled. “Oh I can feel that, Amatus,” he purred. “You’re holding back.”

           “Blighted bond,” Fitzwilliam moaned. He couldn’t stop the rocking of his hips, the way the pressure gathered into a tight knot at his groin.

           “I love watching you come undone while I fill you,” Dorian purred, though his voice betrayed the effort speaking was costing. “Will you deny me?”

           He felt the sharp truth of that statement flutter across the bond. The searing heat of the primal, reptilian pleasure it brought Dorian to see him come undone in this way. It built on his pleasure so that he was teetering on the edge of control. “Dorian,” he gasped breathlessly. “I… ah!” The mage redoubled his efforts and instantly Fitzwilliam was falling over the edge. The coil in his core snapped and his entire body set to shivering as rope after rope of sticky wetness fell across his chest.

           Dorian moaned, “Yes,” somewhere in the darkness behind Fitzwilliam’s eyelids. “Gorgeous.” And then the Inquisitor, still riding his pleasure, felt Dorian press his pelvis tightly against him, go ridged, and fill him with his seed. Curses and deviant sounds of desire fell from the mage’s lips in long strings as his cock twitching inside him.

           Slowly, they both came down. Dorian rested his head against Fitz’s thigh, nuzzling, as he tried to catch his breath. He pressed a soft kiss to his knee before he eased it down and slid free of his lover. The Inquisitor could feel a trickle of disappointment in the bond under all the satisfaction and contentment. Dorian moved off the bed, to the wash basin, where he dropped two cloths into the water, wrung the excess moisture from them, and then brought them over. He handed on to Fitzwilliam, who took it gratefully.

           The mage stayed standing and cleaned himself, and even as deeply sated as he was, Fitzwilliam found he was transfixed by the scene. The cloth leaving trails of moisture across olive-tan skin as Dorian removed the day’s dust, and sex, and sweat. His raven hair was tousled, a sight few had ever seen. His skin and cheeks tinged with the pink flush of exertion.

           He pulled his attention away with some effort, and set to cleaning up his own mess. Maker, but it was a lot. Still, it wiped up easily enough and when he was done he dropped the towel to the floor and beckoned Dorian to return.

           The mage smiled lopsidedly, his no longer perfectly waxed mustache quirking up on one side, and obliged. He slipped into the space under Fitzwilliam’s arm and the man wrapped at around him, pulling him close and dropping a kiss atop his ruffled head.

           “You know,” Dorian sighed softly, fingers trailing across Fitzwilliam’s chest, “if you tell anyone this I will deny it vehemently and spread rumors that you’ve been losing your mind, but I think this might be the best part.”

           Fitzwilliam chuffed a small laugh and tightened his embrace briefly in a one-armed hug. His free hand lifted and took Dorian’s, fingers tangling. “Who would I tell, Serah,” he asked playfully. “No one would believe such sentimentalism came from  _you_.” Dorian chuckled and kissed his thumb. “But, for what it’s worth, this is my favorite bit too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/rikkitikkicathy


	3. Chapter 3

VVV

 

           Dorian was anxious. He had grown increasingly anxious with nothing to do the last few days but wait. It had been  _five_  days and if he had to wait another five he thought he was likely to faint from the strain on his heart.

           Leliana had found the girl. She’d been an apostate, technically, though her family had hidden her well. She had never seen the inside of a Circle. But she had never been a strong girl, and this time when the sickness came she could not fight it off. Leli had used her connections to find the girl, Fitzwilliam has used his influence to practically  _buy_  her from her family. He knew the man hadn’t liked lying to them. Telling them the Inquisition would try to save her when he knew – even if they had healed the girl their healers could tell this would just happen again. She simply failed to thrive. Being a mage was too much strain. It wouldn’t be long before she would succumb, whether to sickness or to a demon. Better this way. They would inform the family of her death, see them well-provided for, send condolences.

           So now the girl, willowy-thin with dark eyes and hair and the pale skin of a life spent indoors, lay in a bed, breathing shallowly. They had moved her here, to an out of the way room in the undercroft of Skyhold, when she had stopped having responses to stimuli like light and sound and touch. She occupied the bed to the right, Anders lay in the bed on the left, sedated. The room had been prepared, a guard set out front, people with a vested interest, people they could trust – Varric and Hawke. The archer and the warrior would keep anyone from snooping and could leap in if things went horribly wrong.

           There was nothing to do now but play the waiting game.

           And Dorian was nervous. For all their preparation the energy to power the bridge had to come from somewhere. And as far as he could see, that was going to mean  _him_.

           He was keenly aware of the way the girl’s breathing had gone uneven. It hardly seemed fair. The girl was practically a child. Fifteen? Sixteen? And he was going to wait for her to die and let a spirit – one that had proven to be dangerous no less! – into her empty body. He didn’t even know her name.  He sighed heavily and rubbed his palm across his face. Maker take him, but he just wanted to get this over with. He had no idea how much power he would need to draw, if he was even capable, what would happen if he failed…

           He was getting lost in his own thoughts, swirling around in his head, making him dizzy. He closed his eyes, breathed. And suddenly he felt grounded. A hand clasped his bare shoulder. Dorian opened his eyes, and looked, finding Fitzwilliam. The man squeezed again. Dorian nodded, feeling right again just as the girl stopped breathing. Leliana rushed to her side, checking for breath and heartbeat. Dorian had been very clear that as long as she lived he would not assist in the transfer. He would not make her an abomination.

           The wait for Leliana’s response felt disproportionately long. Finally, she looked up at him and shook her head. Fitzwilliam did not break their embrace, and for that the mage was grateful. He closed his eyes, focusing, finding the power that always waded just outside his reach. Then he reached for it. It resisted as it always did, bucking at his touch, trying to run wild with his mind and body. He pulled it like one might a stallion’s reigns. A firm hand fighting against nature. And then it was there, ready for shaping. Dorian poured it into the runework on the walls, into the leather stripes, worked with symbols and wrapped around the arms of the mages in the beds. He pulled and pulled, focusing the energy, sending it where it needed to be. He could feel Justice sliding out of Anders, along the leather, but he was moving too slowly. The way was too hard. He wouldn’t make it.

           Dorian grit his teeth and tried to draw more from the fade but it felt like pulling water from a well with a gold bucket. Too much work, not enough progress. By the time the water reached the top his thirst would be too great to be quenched by it. And Dorian could feel himself flagging, the effort taking a toll exponentially larger than anything he had done before.

           He slumped slightly, and felt, somewhere in the back of his consciousness, Fitzwilliam slide behind him, holding him up, pressing his lips to his neck, whispering encouragement. And then Dorian felt the Inquisitor’s grip tighten on his shoulders. And power flooded him. More than that – it came easy as a spring rain. The pure intuitive effortlessness lifted the burden and Dorian felt downright giddy. Justice slid across the leather as Dorian laughed, delightedly, too joyful to care how mad his might sound. And then Justice was in the girl, Anders was free.

           He didn’t want to let go of the power, not now that it felt like this. Like a part of him instead of something to combat. But something pulled him back to this place, called to him. And it was more enticing than staying with the fade and the power that came with it.

           The world snapped back into focus with shocking clarity and Dorian doubled over, retching. He felt Fitzwilliam rubbing his back as he emptied the contents of his stomach, helping him to a crate in the corner and setting him down when he was done, handing him a handkerchief. “You did well,” he was saying as he stroked the mage’s hair. Dorian’s head was spinning. “You are brilliant, Serah,” he whispered softly into his ear. Dorian lacked the energy to do more than nod, lean back against the rough stone wall, and look across the room to the beds.

           Anders would sleep until the sedation wore off. But the girl was sitting up. Looking around the room. She smiled when her eyes found him. He tried to return it, but he was too weak. She nodded, putting a hand to her heart in a gesture of thanks. He followed in kind. And then the world went dark.

 

           …

 

           When Dorian woke again he was on the stone floor of the small abandoned room they had secured for the ritual. He tried not to be too touchy about that. After all, dragging him unconscious from the room to somewhere more comfortable would have drawn all kinds of unwanted attention to it. Better everyone stayed put until everyone was up and walking again. He blinked and found the energy to sit up. Fitzwilliam appeared at his side before he’d even managed to get fully upright, hand on his back and arm offering support.

           “Alright?” Fitz whispered. Dorian could feel the concern and worry positively  _throbbing_  through the bond. He reached across his body and rested his hand across Fitzwilliam’s squeezing weakly, trying to be reassuring.

           “Alright,” he managed, voice rough and raw. Maker, his mouth tasted bad. “You don’t happen to have one of those leaves do you?”

           Fitzwilliam chuffed a small laugh and reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a soft green leaf. It was a bit bruised but Dorian opened his mouth and Fitz placed it on his tongue. A little maceration and the spicy gingermint overwhelmed his taste buds. It was a great improvement. “Bless you, Amatus,” he sighed gratefully. Fitzwilliam pressed a kiss to the top of his head, undoubtedly mussing his hair even further. He felt so sluggish, so drained, but the herb was already doing its work – he could feel his heartrate increasing. “It worked, didn’t it?” He asked, turning to look up at his lover. “That wasn’t a fever dream, right? The ritual worked?”

           Fitzwilliam smiled and nodded. “It did.”

           “I don’t know how you did it,” Anders’s voice came from the far corner where they had lay him. Dorian’s eyes him out and found him propped up against the wall, face lined with fatigue, blinking groggily as if he’d only just woken. “I really have no idea. Even looking at all of this,” he said gesturing to the runework and symbols decorating the room.

           “I…” Dorian began slowly. “I’m not sure either, if I’m honest.” He admitted. “There was a moment there, just before the end, where I thought I couldn’t manage.”

           “And then?” Anders asked.

           “And then I…  _did_ ,” Dorian said with a shrug.

           “Enlightening,” Anders chuckled wryly.

           “You’re sure you’re okay?” Fitzwilliam asked, voice pitched low. “You gave me quite the scare, Serah.”

           Dorian gave him a watery smile and lifted his hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to it. “I’m fine,” he replied. “I promise.” He moved to stand, and Fitzwilliam grabbed him under the elbow, helping him to his feet. It wasn’t until he was up, on wobbly knees, and looking around that he noticed the girl in the opposite corner. She was sitting up, awake and alert, arms wrapped around knees she’s pulled to her chest, and  _staring_  at Anders.

           Leliana was standing between the two beds, looking vaguely shocked and acutely impressed. She followed Dorian’s gaze as he looked between the mage and his previous companion. She nodded once, plastered on a smile, and said, “Anders, meet Justice,” she moved an open palm over and down presenting the girl to the mage. “Justice, you know Anders.” She repeated the gesture.

           The willowy girl moved slowly, as if she wasn’t sure how to do it. She unfolded, slid to the end of the bed and dropped her bare feet to the cool stone floor, rising to stand gingerly, off-balance. The gap between beds was only a few strides and she managed them, though she wobbled. Anders didn’t move. He didn’t cower, either, so bully for him, but it sat frozen, waiting to see what Justice would do, now he was free.

           The girl stopped when her shins bumped the edge of the bedframe. She looked surprised to have hit something. Dorian watched warily as she held her open hand out toward the mage. Would she have magic, like Anders, or just abilities, like Cole? Would Justice, finally free, attack the mage for what his anger turned him into?

           She wiggled her fingers at him and smiled. Anders reached out slowly, and took her hand, then leaned forward, maintaining eye contact, and kissed her knuckles. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last,” he said. His voice and smile were positively dripping with charm. Had Dorian been in proper command of his facilities he might have swooned a bit.

           The girl merely smiled, looking for all the world as if she were drunk on the sensation of being alive. No blush, no giggle. Just happiness.

           “Well,” Dorian said, breaking the tension. “I suppose we might call this a success. Not that there was every any doubt. It was  _my_  ritual after all.”

           He felt Fitzwilliam nudge him with an elbow. It knocked Dorian completely off balance and he began to fall. Fortunately, Fitz caught him under his arms and pulled him upright once more. “Sorry,” he whispered sheepishly before turning to his Spymaster. “Leli, can you see to Anders and Justice? I need to get Dorian to bed.” Leliana nodded in recognition of his orders.

           “Oh my, Inquisitor,” Dorian purred. “So forward!”

           Fitzwilliam laughed as he tucked his shoulder into the mage’s armpit, taking his weight so they could walk. He could hear Anders and Leliana snickering. “Ha,” Fitz rebutted, moving them toward the door. “Not a chance. To bed and sleep with you. That’s an order.”

           “Spoil sport,” Dorian faux-grumbled as they exited. Truth be told, sleep had never sounded better.

 

VVV

 

           It had been a few days since the ritual. A few blissful days of freedom. Anders had mostly spent them in a small room with Hawke, Varric, and a Templar, waiting to make sure the ritual didn’t produce any unintended side effects. Dorian, he had heard, had slept for nearly a day before waking and ordering servants to bring him a feast.

           Anders had spent a fair amount of time contemplating the mage. He’d inspected the ritual site and notes before and after the task had been completed and  _still_  could not see how it worked. The runework was solid but the sheer  _power_  it would have taken to fuel the ritual should have been beyond any single mage. Void, it was likely beyond the purview of the Grand Enchanter’s abilities. Even if she had a circle backing her. Either Dorian was an exceptionally powerful mage, or he was an exceptionally brilliant one.

           Anders shook his head in an attempt to not fall down that rabbit hole of theory for the hundredth time. He felt odd. Well, that was an understatement. He’d gotten used to having to share his body, his thoughts, with Justice. He had entirely lost count of the times he had opened his mouth to make some quip, or to flirt, or to be suggestive, only to have Justice’s consciousness reach out and physically snap his mouth closed. After a certain point he’d stopped trying all together.  _At some point,_  he thought mockingly to himself. He knew exactly when. It was when Hawke saw what he had done. The confusion and panic in her eyes before they fell on him and filled with pain and fury. And then the understanding.  _That_  was the moment. Justice had won. There was no reason to keep up the pathetic attempts at exerting his own will.

           Of course, that was slightly unfair, he considered as he strolled leisurely around Skyhold’s garden. He had wanted to do the things Justice suggested. Anders had  _wanted_  to force the change. His anger demanded it. Justice was easy to blame. Easier than facing his own monsters. How convenient it had been to have a demon to blame. Hawke had been the one thing he fought for. Justice had not approved of them – not his infatuation with the woman, not their relationship, not the nights he spent agonizing over the loss of her.

           He sighed heavily. The gardens weren’t working. He was going to go have a drink. The thought made him smile and maybe there was a little jaunt in his step as he sauntered off to the tavern. It had been ages since he had taken ale or liquor for pleasure. It had been a way to shut Justice out. He tended to drink especially hard when Vengeance tried to rear his head. They’d left more than one tavern owner to put out a fire as they ran into the night hoping to outstrip Templars.

           He walked through the courtyard, taking things in. The late summer day saw all kinds out. The lovely dwarven scout… Scout… Harding stood to the side of the stair chatting with a bookish looking human fellow. He smiled as he passed them.  _They clearly have a thing going on,_  he thought. They gave him strange looks as he passed, but he was used to that.  To the right of the tavern was a training area. Not for the troops, obviously, it was far too small of that, but other residents of Skyhold made use of it. Currently it was that  _wall_ of a Qunari. Anders couldn’t help but think how impressive he looked, swinging that massive axe at some poor chap with a shield.  _All rippling muscles, fearsome pounding, and dripping sweat,_ he thought, pausing a moment to look more appreciatively.  _I bet he’d be a fine ride._  Iron Bull stopped his assault and sunk his axe into the dirt, leaning on the haft and looking at Anders. The mage blinked, surprised to have garnered attention, and then watched with shock as the Qunari  _winked_  at him. His mouth fell open, color came to his cheeks, and he rushed through the open tavern door, mere paces away.

           Inside was a bit warm, but quiet at this early afternoon hour. He asked the keeper for something cheap, then took a mug of what looked like nothing so much as piss, to a table in the corner. His eyes took in the room as he put his back against the wall in a way so that he could see both the doorway outside and the stairs. Dorian was at a table nearby, reading, as usual, the quartermaster was taking a late meal, and the bard sat in the far corner scribbling onto a page. She’d be singing away come the dinner bells, but for now she wrote and hummed to herself.

           Anders took a pull of the, he was assuming, ale and grimaced at how warm it was. Still it was his to enjoy. He sat for a long while, sipping and observing. His drink was just over half gone when he realized, not for nothing, that the view afforded to him, by his location, was very enjoyable. Dorian’s taste in clothing was interesting, but the missing sleeve had to have its advantages. For one, it was likely he wasn’t as warm as the rest of them.  _For another,_  he thought positively leering at the mage,  _it affords a delightful view of that arm. Maker, look at it._   _How does a mage get so well-muscled?_

           “For starters,” Dorian drawled from across the room without looking up from his book, “I help with arrivals in the library. Crates of books are dreadfully heavy.”

           Anders stared at the man. His thoughts moved too slowly.  _What an odd coincidence,_  he thought sluggishly.  _It almost sounded like he was responding to me._  Anders looked about to find who the mage had been speaking too, but everyone was as they were before. Keeper behind the bar, bard in the corner, both oblivious to either mage. When he looked back at Dorian he was looking at him sideways a smirk playing under that miraculous mustache.  _Oh maker,_  Anders thought frantically.

           “You heard that?” Was that  _his_  voice, all high-pitched and embarrassed? Dorian nodded slowly, smirk never faltering. “Oh Maker…” he stood abruptly, a chair clattering to the floor even as he felt heat rush to his cheeks.

           “Are you well?” Dorian asked. “You’ve gone a bit red.”

           Anders nodded, backing toward the open doorway, hands feeling along the wall for the exit. It seemed speech had failed him, as he merely nodded silently. Finally, his hands slipped through open air and he turned, Dorian’s amused laughter following him as he rushed out of the building. He looked to the left, spotting Iron Bull lounging on a barrel, exercises completed. His gazed, heavy and suggestive followed Anders as he walked. What had he been thinking when he saw the Qunari? He tried desperately to recall. It was obvious now that the Bull had overheard his comments. How long had this been going on? Justice had only been freed two days ago. Surely he couldn’t have done too much damage in that time.

           Then he remembered the scout. The way her cheeks had colors. Maker, he had  _outed_  her to the bookish man. He raced to his room in the tower, blowing past a number of people he might have accidentally hit on in the past couple of days, and slammed the door shut behind him. He pressed his back to it and slumped to the floor, head in his hands.

           “I haven’t been this embraced since Licinius stole all my smallclothes and then lifted my robes in the dining hall,” he groaned to himself.

           “I dunno,” the soft, amused alto of Hawke’s voice filled the small room. “What about that time Varg stole the poem you had written me and took off straight for Lowtown and Varric got his hands on it?”

           Anders looked up with shock only to find Hawke sitting on his bed, silhouetted by the rose-colored sunset. He nodded, a small smile coming up to curl his lips. “That damn mabari,” he sighed. “Right pain in the ass.” Hawke nodded sadly. “I miss him too,” he said. That got a half-smile out of the woman.

           “So,” she said casually, leaning back on her elbow on his bed, “what did you do this time?”

           “ _Me_?” He asked, trying to affect innocence. “Why must  _I_  be to blame?”

           “Because usually you’re the one doing the embarrassing,” Hawke said playfully.

           “You know me well, Hawke,” he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “I’ll give you that.” She nodded, gesturing for him to continue. “It’s nothing. I just… well, I have learned that I may have gotten too used to Justice asking as my filter.”

           That got her attention, though you’d hardly know to look at her. She just lifted an eyebrow.

           He rolled his eyes and waved dismissively. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you have all sorts of amusing things to say. But they’ll have to wait. I assumed you came here for a reason?”

           Hawke nodded, even sat up, but she didn’t say anything. She just looked at the floor, eerily silent. Anders furrowed his brow, then stood and walked to the bed. She didn’t move, so he sat beside her. It was several moments later before she took a shaky breath and looked up at him. He looked back. She was so focused on him, searching for something, but what? He flinched when her hand came up and touched his cheek, cupping it, letting her thumb move against the stubble on his jaw.

           “It’s you,” she said in a voice so soft he could hardly make out the words. There were tears in her eyes and it made him ache inside. “I hadn’t really dared to hope.” In a blink she had moved forward and pressed her lips to his. It was shy, just the softest brushing of skin on skin, but  _Maker_  it felt like home. And then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and Hawke was leaning away. Her hand fell back into her lap.

           He didn’t know what to say. What was the right thing to say right now? It was out as soon as he thought it, “What about Varric?”

           Hawke nodded once and looked away. “It’s complicated,” she muttered. She picked at her fingernails, cleaning the ever-present dirt out from under them – an anxious habit. “This is all too complicated. I – I’m just glad it worked and… you’re okay.”

           Anders nodded, though she wasn’t looking. “I owe you an apology,” he said. He huffed a small, humorless laugh. “I owe you many apologies, actually. And I lot more than that.”

           Hawke stood abruptly, drawing his gaze with it. She didn’t turn to look at him. “I’m glad you’re okay. I-I have to go now.” She strode to the door, pulled it open, and left without waiting for him to respond. The door swung shut, the thump echoing emptily.

 

VVV

 

           It turned out getting Justice out of Anders had been the easy part, Dorian reflected, feeling frustrated. The mage girl had been willing, the spirit had gone from Anders peacefully. No, it was becoming increasingly clear that the hard part was going to be getting the spirit to learn how to behave. That was supposed to be Cole’s job, but of course someone had to watch  _Cole_. And that had fallen on him. He sat, watching the spirits engaged in a game of chess as he had basically every day since Fitzwilliam had stopped mothering him and let him leave their rooms. A week of chess. How dreary it had been.

           “What is your name?” Cole was asking, paying no attention to Justice’s strategy whatsoever. It was a shame, really. Even Dorian could see that the boy could win in three moves, and he’d never cared much for the game. Also, he was pretending to read, which meant his attention wasn’t entirely fixated on the board in the first place. He was more focused on paying attention to the spirits. Making sure Justice was adjusting well.

           “Her name was Emily,” Justice said absently, focused on examining the board.

           “Do you want to be Emily?” Cole asked.

           The girl shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You took your body’s name, why should I not take mine?”

           Cole furrowed his brow. “I… I didn’t know I wasn’t Cole,” he said by way of explanation.

           Justice looked up from the board, her dark brown eyes squinted at the boy. Maker, but it was odd to call the spirit “her” and “she.” Of course, spirits didn’t have genders. She had been the only viable choice, and Justice had made it clear her being a woman didn’t matter. Dorian suspected the spirit might change his tune when the body went through its first cycle and suddenly there was all that blood to contend with, but that was a concern for another day. And another person. Leliana, preferably, as she was the one who had found the girl.

           “Emily does not sound like the thing I am. Anders called me Justice. That was a good name,” she paused, thinking. “But it seems to upset the others.”

           “Yes,” Cole said excitedly, “I met a man named Nicholas once! I liked that name. You should use it!”

           Dorian barked a short laugh. “Cole,” he explained kindly, “aside from being a terrible name, Nicholas is also the name of a man. Justice is a woman, at least to the rest of the world. It would be better to avoid unwanted attention. An unusual name would draw at least a bit.” He put his book aside and addressed the spirits. “Besides which, names  _do_ matter, Justice. There’s a power to them. That’s why spies and assassins lie about theirs. Most people don’t get to choose their own. So we should choose carefully.”

           Cole furrowed his brow. “Do names have meaning?”

           “Yes,” Dorian said nodding. “It can vary greatly depending on where you are from. But all names mean something. That’s a fine idea, Cole,” Dorian said with a smile. The boy ducked his head in an attempt to hide the pleased look that flashed across his face.

           “I’m afraid I do not understand,” Justice said, slowly turning her searching eyes on the mage. She had still not made her move.

           “Well,” Dorian tried to explain, “my name means something like ‘stormy’. Most people do not get to choose their own name, and therefore they do not get to choose their meaning. You are fortunate enough to decide what you want.”

           Justice sat, quietly thoughtful for a little while. “I think,” she said at last, “that I would prefer to keep something of my old self. I have a new body, newfound purpose. It would be good to feel more grounded.”

           Dorian couldn’t help but smile at that. It was a very human thing to say, and that was good. Much like Cole, the spirit had maintained a degree of his power, enough to be worrisome. But things like this were encouraging. “There are names which mean ‘justice,’” he said. “Although most of the ones with which I am familiar are from Tevinter.”

           Justice waved a delicate hand dismissively. “I do not care for nations, mage.”

           Dorian nodded, smirking slightly. “Well, there’s Eurydice, but that’s a terribly stuffy name and there’s no good shortened version of it. People will end up calling you Yuri or something equally horrendous.” The mage rubbed his fingertips against his chin, feeling the scratch there. He was in want of a shave. “Maybe Astraea? Though that shortens to Trae or...” he faked a cough, cutting himself off. If he said “ass” Cole would probably be delighted by it and insist upon the name for the novelty of the word.

           “I do not understand this assertion you make,” Justice said. “About shortening names. Why do humans do this? I have heard the Inquisitor call you ‘Doe’. I have heard you call him ‘Fitz’. Yet I do not understand the purpose.”

           “It’s something people do as a,” Dorian waved his hand, rolling it at the wrist, “show of familiarity or affection. Strangers would be expected to use your proper name but people you care for, who care for you, they often choose something more…”

           “Intimate,” Justice finished, nodding. “I can see that now. Thank you for explaining.”

           “Alexandrea,” Cole sighed softly. It pulled their attention back to the search.

           It was perfect. “The Defender of Men.” Dorian could not tell if the boy had come up with it on his own or pulled it from a dark forgotten place in Dorian’s mind. It was the epitome of a Vintish name. It had been his grandmother’s. He had not thought on her in many years.

           The spirit seemed to be thinking that one over. Finally, she nodded, turning her gaze back to the board and moving a piece in a particularly brilliant move. “I accept,” she said, a faint hint of happiness in her tone. “That is a good name.”

           Cole beamed before moving one of his white pieces. Seemingly at random. “Your move, Xan,” he said gleefully. Justice –  _Alexandrea_ – smiled at the boy, the smallest thing. Dorian only just caught it. He managed to hide his surprise at the implications of the exchange by way of burying his nose back in his book.

 

VVV

 

            Anders had been surprised when then girl had shown up at his door. Justice with a new body and, it seemed, a new name had knocked outside his chamber, politely asked if he might accompany him –  _her_ rather – to the village. When he had asked she merely smiled and said “I have learnt a new trick. Cole is going to take me to the village to practice, and I would like you to come.” She was sounding more like a person and less like the spirit that had run rampant through his body every day.

            Naturally, having nothing better to do, he agreed. Trevelyan had come to him early that morning and informed him that tomorrow he would be put on trial for his crimes in Kirkwall. Now that everything was done with Justice. Since he had no great desire to sit around and contemplate the morrow, he now found the three of them walking down the side of Skyhold’s mountain to the small village which had sprung up there. Even from here he could see it was larger now that it had been a month and a half ago when he’d arrived in it. Sleeping in a barn and gathering information on Varric’s location before getting the stones to go up to the keep proper and meet with the dwarf.

            Cole and Alexandrea lead the way, talking affably. It was almost like they were human.  _Almost_. There was something off in the way they spoke to one another. As if… as if they had a deeper connection, a common understanding that no one else could touch. It was fascinating, and terrifying. For not the first time Anders considered what the spirits might be capable of, if they put their minds to it. It sent a shiver down his spine. Thankfully, they seemed to have no interest in conquering.

            When they rounded the last switchback and the town’s entrance welcomed them Anders pulled his guard up. He had no idea what the spirit intended and the Justice he had come to know was… prone to outbursts. The people they passed, however, didn’t seem as concerned as he. They greeted Cole and Alexandrea with little nods and smiles.

            “H-how long have you two been venturing down here, exactly?” Anders asked warily.

            “I’ve visited since there were people,” Cole said.

            “He started bringing me just after the ritual,” Xan explained. “For practice.”

            “Yes,” he said slowly, as he mentally calculated her answer. It had to be about two weeks now. But Dorian was supposed to be watching them. Surely the mage would have told someone if the spirits had been absconding. “You mentioned that. What, exactly have you been practicing?”

            “Helping!” Cole said excitedly.

            “Helping…” Anders repeated.

            “You will see,” Alexandrea replied.

            The continued to what could only be called the town square were one being exceptionally lenient with their usage. It was, more or less, the center of the jumbled houses and storefronts. Cole took Xan’s hands and led her to the opening. She looked nervous, which was startling enough, but then Cole smiled at her, touched her face and she softened. He didn’t want to think about that too much. The dark-haired girl nodded once and Cole moved back, leaving her alone.

            Xan closed her eyes. Her chest rose shallowly as she took deep breaths and she turned her palms up. Anders could feel energy gathering around her before trickling out in dozens of tendrils moving through the town. Winding between buildings, into homes, through gardens. He had no idea what it was. In working with Cole over the past few weeks he had come to see that Cole’s abilities were similar to his own healing magic, though no similar enough that he could duplicate it. This, however, this was something wholly foreign to him. Whatever Alexandrea’s abilities did, they were impressive.

            She stood like that, stone still, breathing shallowly, brow furrowed in concentration for long minutes. People passed them, throwing curious glances but showing no more interest than that. As if this were a curiosity they had seen before. Still not understood, but no longer new and interesting.

            Anders’s mind was just beginning to wander when her eyes shot open, glowing blue where her usual dark pools lay. “The house behind the bakery,” she said. Anders shivered to hear that voice, the voice that had been his for so long – Justice. “There is a man. Red beard. Filthy nails. Rail thin. Bring him. And the boy.”

            To Anders’s surprise it was not Cole who went, but a nearby pair of men who had stopped to watch. They nodded once, then, with grim determination, set off. They returned later, the two men hauling the man by his shoulders as a small dirty boy walked obediently behind them. The man swore and thrashed. The men dropped him before Xan. It was only then Anders noticed more people had joined them in the square and, with the man delivered, closed ranks.

            The man, tall and thin, wore a dirty apron speckled with blood. He stood and looked around, clearly terrified.

            “What is this?” he hissed.

            “This is a trial,” Xan said calmly. Anders felt the panic pouring over him. Justice was about to strike this man down, he knew it. And he wasn’t sure he could stop it.

            “A trial?” the man scoffed. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Broken no laws. And if I had, you have no proof,  _woman._ ” He spat the last word and then spit in the dirt at her feet.

            “I miss mother,” a dreamy voice came from his right. Anders turned to see Cole, his hand on the small boy’s shoulder. “Mother used to let me lick the jam spoon. She said I was her knight.” Cole continued. The boy’s tears fell silently. “But knights save people. I couldn’t save mother.”

            The skinny man’s jaw fell open.

            “Where is the boy’s mother?” Xan asked, voice hard, knowing.

            “She…” the man began. “She left us. Ran off in the night with some solider. I knew we should never have come to Skyhold.”

            The people around them murmured in agreement, as if his story was well-known. “And the boy?” Xan asked.

            “What about him?” The man growled.

            Xan gestured for Cole to bring the boy forward. He was sad and scared. Cole got on his knees and looked at the boy, eyes level with his own. “You’re afraid,” Cole said in a voice so low Anders was surprised he could hear it at all. The boy nodded. “Do you remember the berry patch?” The boy furrowed his brow and nodded again. “Sunny days in the meadow. Picking berries in the light. Sometimes the thorns pricked you. It hurt.” Cole paused and lifted his hands, taking the boy’s in them and turning the palms up. He inspected them closely. “Dewdrops of blood on your fingers,” he continued. He looked up into the boy’s eyes once more. “The price you paid for the sweetness of the jam.” The boy stared at Cole with wide eyes. “That is an important lesson little one.”

            And then he dropped the boy’s hand altogether, letting him choose if he would go to Xan or stay in the safety of the crowd. Anders looked on in awe as he watched the boy steel himself and walk to the willowy woman. She smiled down at him.

            “Might I borrow your shirt?” she asked. He looked confused, but nodded his agreement and lifted the shirt. He held it out to her, hand open and trusting. That was when he saw it. The boy was  _covered_  in bruises in varying stages of healing. Anders would have to examine him to be sure, but he felt secure in his estimate that the child hadn’t had a single pain free day in years. So many scars for such a small boy.

            Xan took the shirt with a kind smile, eyes still glowing, as the crowd began their low angry muttering. “Cole,” she said softly. “Please take the boy to Skyhold. He’ll need new clothes.” She reached out, touching the boy gently on his shoulder and returning his dirty tunic. Her eyes fluttered for a moment. “Honey cakes with jam,” she whispered to Cole.

            Cole nodded, and held out his hand. The boy ran to him, taking it, and they walked toward the entrance to the small town. When they were out of earshot Xan spoke once more. “I can see it,” she said slowly, turning a hard glare on the skinny man before them. “The fight with his mother. The rage. I see the knife and the blood. I see where her body was buried.”

            The people in the town started calling for his blood. A mob. Anders had seen this before. This could destroy the entire fledgling town. He called his magic to him and readied for a fight. Men came to hold the man, who had just turned and tried to charge his way out of the circle. Xan raised a hand and the crow quieted. They were waiting on  _her_ , Anders realized with shock.

            “Do not be quick to anger, good people,” she cautioned. “I can see it in your minds. You are allowing guilt to drive your actions.  You feel guilty you did not stop them man when you knew he hit his wife. You are guilty you did not protect the boy. But you are still good people. I can see that too. Do not let him take that from you.” And just like that the crowd settled.

            “The past few weeks you have come here,” someone shouted from the crowd. A stout woman with a motherly look about her. “You have eased old pains and new. Helped us when we didn’t know help was what we needed. You and Cole. You’ve been good to us, Mistress. Tell us what to do.”

            Xan smiled at her, the blue glow of Justice fading away, leaving only the inner glow of pride and affection. And he thought he’d seen everything today. Even compared to Justice staying the hands of a vengeful mob this took the cake.

            “I will tell you where to find the wife,” she said at last. “We will gather evidence, then present it to the Inquisitor. Justice will be served.”

            The crowd murmured in agreement. But the stout woman spoke up again. “And what of the boy?”

            Xan looked genuinely worried about that. And, surprisingly, Anders felt for her. She had taken the boy’s only family. Even if his father was a monster, the boy loved him. “I think,” Anders said, “he would do well in the kitchens at Skyhold. And we will find someone to foster him here in the village, when he is free from his duties there.”

            He didn’t actually expect anyone to agree to that. He had essentially said they’d put him to work. But the woman nodded. “I’ll take him,” she said. “He spent many a night in my hay loft as it was,” she said with a laugh. “Might as well move him inside.”

            He could tell Xan was looking into the woman’s mind. If it were him he would be looking to see that she actually cared for the child. That she wasn’t just looking to take his money from working the kitchens or to exploit him in some other way. But Alexandrea seemed satisfied.

            “That is good of you,” Xan said with a small nod. The woman went red and bowed her head under the praise. Xan turned to the men who held their prisoner. “Will you take him to Skyhold please?” she asked gently. “Then talk to Harrit about your broken scythe, James.” She turned to the other man. “And I’ve had the quartermaster find some good starter grain for you, Dan. Pick it up while you’re there.”

            The men nodded, offered their thanks, and began lugging the skinny man away. He went far more easily than he had come, broken under the weight of his secrets. The crowd dispersed and Xan walked over to Anders, her stride slow and strong.

            “This is what you wanted to show me?” Anders asked.

            Xan nodded. “Cole has taught me to help. To let the people dole out their own justice. I wanted you to see this because I have been thinking.” She began walking back toward the entrance of the town.

            “About?” Anders asked.

            “What comes next,” she said simply, soft leather soles scuffing along the dirt road back to the keep.

            “Ah,” Anders replied solemnly. “And, what comes next?”

            “I do not wish to leave the fadeling,” she said, a small smile lifting her lips. “I wish to go where he goes.”

            Anders was nothing if not a master of timing and subtlety. “Are you in love with Cole?”

            She stopped walking, and looked at him as if he had told her the sky was purple. Then her face cracked, laughter filling the mountain air around them until she was hunched over, gasping for breath. “You,” she managed between deep gulping breaths. “You think…  _Maker._ ”

            In another moment he might have been impressed with her curse. Just now, however, he was marveling that she could feel this amused while he was simultaneously turning a deep shade of red.

            “Cole and I are kin,” she said at last. “Bonded and joined in a way mortals will never know. There is no desire there, none of the sexual longing that ties mortal men in knots. We are intimate. We understand each other. We are two of a kind and the only kind in the world. Do I  _love_ him? No, Anders,” Xan said, smirking and returning to steady footfalls to the road. “I  _need_  Cole. Like a line to the seashore.”

            Ander blinked hard at the place the spirit had been, then jogged to catch up to her on the path. “So you’ll be going where Cole goes?” he said finally.

            “Yes,” she said, holding herself with an air of nobility. “If he stays, I stay. If he follows Varric, so go I.”

            Anders shivered, trying to avoid thinking of his own fate, of the trial to come, and of his friends heading back to Kirkwall to help in the rebuilding efforts. “That’s a dangerous place for you, Ju… Alexandrea.”

            She nodded. “I know. But it is the place I need to be, if it is the place Cole goes.”

            Anders said nothing more, accepting her words as they trudged in dust back to the keep. Once within the gate he climbed the long stair and made for the tavern. Alexandrea said nothing, turning from him and moving toward the garden where she preferred to dally. The sun was dipping, setting the peaks of the Frostbacks afire in oranges and pinks. He zeroed in on the tavern’s sign. Tomorrow was looming like the headsman’s axe and he needed to drink until he forgot it was about to fall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/rikkitikkicathy


	4. Chapter 4

VVV

 

            “Come again, Prickles?” Varric asked warily. When he entered the Inquisitor’s chambers Fitzwilliam’s face had been a hard mask. He was, at that moment, every inch the Inquisitor – imposing and authoritative. He was issuing a command.  _Probably shouldn’t have called him Prickles, then…_

            The mask fell, and suddenly it was his friend once more. “I’m sorry Varric, but the Council of Kirkwall has asked me to pass judgement on Anders. If I refuse they will demand his return and try him themselves. Surely you can see that this is the better option.”

            Varric nodded sluggishly, feeling a little stunned. He had always known this day would come for Anders but, well, the things they had accomplished in the last couple of months were fantastic. Like something out of a story. Varric had started to believe that story might have a happy ending after all. It had been foolish. “Of course, Inquisitor,” Varric agreed. He looked up at his friend once, and abruptly looked away. Fitzwilliam looked so sad, so apologetic, so crushed under the burden of this responsibility. The dwarf couldn’t stand to see him like this. Fitzwilliam hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. He was just doing his duty. “Don’t suppose you could tell me,” Varric began leadingly. “What the decision might be?”

            Fitzwilliam shook his head slowly, eyebrows furrowed with regret. “If I knew what my decision would be, Varric,” he said sincerely, “I would tell you. I would ease your worry if I could, my friend.” Varric managed a sad smile. He believed him, on that account – he  _would_  tell him if he could. “But I’m afraid even I don’t know what I’ll do yet. I know what Kirkwall  _wants_ ,” he practically spat. “But they don’t’ have all the information, and they haven’t seen Anders flourish, as we have, now that Alexandrea wanders the world.”

            Varric nodded his agreement. But one this puzzled him yet, and if there was anything in this world he hated it was an unresolved plot point. “Why are you telling me?” he asked Fitzwilliam. “I appreciate it, and all, Inquisitor, but why tell  _me_?”

            Fitzwilliam leaned on his desk and rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought it might behoove you to know, considering your circumstances,” Fitzwilliam replied. “I told Anders before he left this morning, and it looks like he and Xan have returned from the village. I image you’ll find him drunk in the tavern and I didn’t want him to blindside you. Also, the formal announcements went out an hour ago.”

            Varric nodded. “That was good of you, Inquisitor,” he said solemnly. “Thank you for that.”

            Fitzwilliam attempted a smile. “You should go be with your friend, Varric,” he said, rising and clapping him on the shoulder.

           So, Varric left and made his way down the stairs and through the hall, and across the courtyard and into the tavern. He glanced around and, as the Inquisitor had suspected, found the blonde mage sitting in a far corner, drink in hand, and Hawke beside him. He would have wondered if he told her, but that solemn expression spoke volumes. She knew, and she was going to drink until she forgot. Not a bad plan all things considered.

           “Well, Blondie,” Varric said as he approached the table and pulled up a tall stool, “seems to me we have celebrating to do.”

           Anders turned and looked at him, eyes gone wide in disbelief. “Sorry?” he asked.

           “What the hell, Varric,” Hawke said angrily.

           “What?” he said with a playful smile, “you didn’t hear about our boy’s flirtation with the entire keep last week? His remarks to Iron Bull were particularly well-received I hear.”

           The mage blushed a deep red and gulped his drink. Hawke blinked back her confusion, amusement and ale overcoming her sorrow. “ _Did_  he now?” she asked mischievously. “And here I thought Anders was still mooning over Fenris.”

           Anders sputter, spraying ale about the table and Varric let out a long, boisterous laugh. “Oh I forgot about that,” he admitted, chuckling.

           “How could you forget?” Hawke asked, pressing a hand to her chest dramatically. “Our Anders had quite the crush on him as I recall. Why is beyond me. He was ever so broody.”

           “I did not have a crush on him,” Anders grumbled.

           “No, of course not,” Hawke ribbed. “You only made calf-eyes at him, and found excuses to touch him. Was it true love Anders?”

           Anders gruffed something under his breath and then stood. “If I’m going to be spending the evening with you degenerates,” he said with a smirk, “I am going to need far more to drink.” He moved to the bar and ordered another. Varric saw the keeper looking his way, asking silently if this was going to be okay. The dwarf nodded, and signaled that he keep the drinks coming. It was going to be a long night, and he didn’t relish the thought of having to run to the bar every ten minutes or so. The mage returned and sat in his chair. “Where were we?”

           “We were talking about your lost love and how much you missed his angry gaze,” Varric responded. That sent Hawke into a fit of giggles and Anders rolled his eyes, preparing to protest.

 

           …

 

           Some hours later the keeper kicked them out. That was okay. He was right snookered and the warrior and the mage had been drinking harder and longer. The stumbled around the courtyard talking about old times at a volume even Varric could tell was beyond acceptable levels. Finally, they flopped onto a bench.

           “Wha now?” Hawke slurred.

           “More drinks!” Anders declared.

           “Keeper threw us out, Blondie,” Varric laughed.

           “More drinks!” Ander reiterated.

           “I, w-we have drinks in my rooms,” Hawke said brightly. “We could go to there!”

           Varric wasn’t sure that was the best idea, but it was probably a better one than passing out in the courtyard and waking to find they had been used for pickpocketing practice. So, with all the efficiency of herding cats, Varric maneuvered his drunk friends all the way up the battlements and into Hawke’s rooms.

           You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but Hawke had a taste for the finer things in life. She wasn’t a woman of lavish means, by any measure, but she liked a big, soft bed, and silky linens, and room to move. And given that she was the Hero of Kirkwall those were the things she was given. He figured she deserved it, after spending so many years on the road and on the run. He opened the door and his companions stumbled in.

           Hawke made for the decanter. It was full of something, not wine, that had never really been Hawke’s style, probably brandy or something similar. She poured the three of them rather generous glasses and handed them to the men before returning for her own. Varric sipped cautiously. It  _was_  brandy, and it was very good. She was going to be sad she wasted it on a pair of drunks come morning.

           There weren’t enough chairs for them all, so Varric sat on the floor. To his surprise Hawke and Anders joined him. He couldn’t help but smile at them. He had never felt like this, so content. Even with tomorrow’s trial looming ahead of them. Of course, the reminder of the trial had him furrowing his brown and looking into his glass. He didn’t want to lose Blondie. It had been hard enough when they were separated after Kirkwall. Not knowing where he was.

           And just like that Varric was sucked into a memory. Anders trying to give him the only thing he had of his mother’s – an embroidered pillow. He’d refused it then, telling the mage he didn’t want his pillow. Of course, Varric hadn’t understood what was about to happen. He had a connection smuggle that pillow out of Lowtown after the attack. It was somewhere safe now, waiting for him to retrieve it. The dwarf sipped the amber liquid again. He had always thought it was something to remember Anders by. Now, he realized, he wanted to give it to him. If only he had it here, he could hand it over and see that smile.

 _Anders might be dead tomorrow_ , his brain saw fit to remind him.  _Seize the moment._

           “Varric,” Hawke was saying, as she reached out to touch his cheek. He blinked and looked up at her. He knew what he must have looked like. He could feel the aching in his chest bleeding into his expression. “Where did you go?” she asked quietly.

           “I was remembering,” he admitted. “Blondie,” he said, turning slightly to look the mage in the eye. “I have your mother’s pillow.”

           Drunk as he was it took Anders some time to process the words. Varric could see it happening in real time as his eyes went from narrow and confused to wide and surprised. “H-how?”

           Varric smiled and shrugged modestly. “I had someone get it for me, after the fighting in Kirkwall. It’s being kept somewhere safe. I-I wanted to give it back to you, Blondie, but I don’t know if… if…” He felt his throat get tight. Maker, where was this all coming from? He’d always liked the mage but this? This was something more.

           Anders sat silently for a moment. “I wanted you to have it,” he said finally, voice pitched so low it was a struggle to make out, even as close as they were sitting. Anders shifted slightly, coming up on his knees directly in front of Varric, before catching his gaze and holding it. “Thank you, Varric,” he said. His voice trembled. “Thank you for thinking of me even when I was at my worst.” The mage leaned over, closing the gap between them, and wrapped his arms around the dwarf. The embrace was fierce and Varric returned it, feeling like he was clutching onto something which was slipping through his fingers with every passing second. He had only had his friend back for half a season, and he was already losing him again.

           When he felt Anders’s grip lessen he let the blonde pull away. But Anders did not, as he had anticipated, sit back down and continue drinking. He lingered, face close, looking deeply into Varric’s eyes. Maker, but that look made his head spin. Anders’s golden eyes searched his face for something and the dwarf felt his heart pounding in his chest.

           He was leaning forward, hands tangling in the mage’s robes, before he knew what he was doing. His lips sought out Anders’s as his eyes fluttered shut. The kiss was soft, sweet, an attempt to convey something even Varric had no words for. They lingered in that moment, lips sliding in a slow rhythm against each other until breathing was labored, lungs demanding more air than their current activity allowed.

           They parted, panting, and Anders flopped back onto his bottom on the cold stone floor. They stared at each other for a long moment and then, seemingly at the same time, remembered Hawke was in the room.

           Varric turned to look at her, feeling the heat crawling up his neck. “Uh, sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

           Hawke looked confused, and red, but not angry, so that was a relief. “Sorry for what?” she asked. He could hear that huskiness in her voice that betrayed her arousal. “We’re drunk, it’s the night before one of the most important people in our lives goes on trial.” She bit her lip and looked back and forth between them. “You two obviously have some unresolved tension,” she half-joked. “I don’t want to have any regret,” she continued, voice suddenly firm and in control. “I say we go for it.”

           Anders gulped his drink but even the glass couldn’t hide the panic on his face. “Go for it, she says!” he exclaimed once he put it down.

           “Yes,” she continued calmly. “The three of us. One night to lose ourselves in companionship.”

           Varric surprised himself. “I’m in,” he declared, also polishing off his drink. He’d never really thought of Anders sexually. He’d never even thought of kissing the man. But here he was, drunk and worried and, if he was honest,  _craving_  the feel of Anders’s lips again.  _Minx_   _probably put something in the brandy_ , he thought with a smirk.

           All eyes turned to Anders, who still looked a little like he had just been doused in a frozen river. He laughed to himself, put the glass down, and said, “What the hell.”

           Hawke stood, leading them both to the bed. Varric felt a little awkward, not knowing how this was going to go with three of them, but the alcohol had emboldened all of them. Anders looked nervous too, but Hawke? Oh, she was loving this. He could see the twinkle in her eyes, that sly smile as she stood, waiting to see what he would do. What either of them would do.

           Then she got fed up with waiting. She winked at Varric then moved to the mage. Her hands ran across his back, fingertips lingering. Before she wrapped around to his front and began deftly unfastening his robes. That done she returned to stand behind him. “Varric, love,” she purred. “Help me out. Unlace his trousers.”

           Varric thought he might actually blush but the brandy was doing its work. Her request sounded  _almost_  reasonable. He walked to stand before Anders his fingers moving somewhat less than elegantly as he fumbled the lacing just below the mages navel. He looked up, catching Anders eye. The mage shot him a wry smile, so like the Anders he had first met, all shameless flirting and wit and laughter. He could see Hawke’s hands come over his shoulders and pull the garment back. Anders shrugged out of it. Naturally, it being the end of summer and still some of the hottest days, he did not have a tunic beneath. Void, Varric was shocked he wore the robes at all.

           The broad expanse of Anders’s chest, speckled with curling blonde hair, filled him with a desire he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t as well-muscled as it had once been, but he was regaining himself day by day. Varric’s fingers remembered their task and began pulling the threads loose. There were so many scars on the mage. Some from the circle, some from survival. Varric let his hand slide under the loosened waistband and grabbed the mage by his bare hips.  _Maker_  but his skin was warm, practically hot under his fingers. Varric pulled him closer and pressed his lips to the first scar he found, a white slash across a rib. Then he found another, a small red circle, most likely a burn, and repeated his action. On the third he let his tongue snake out and trace the path of a slender line of silver. That one drew a low sound from the mage and his head fell back. Somewhere Varric could hear Hawke’s lips kissing some bit of Ander’s skin.

           He had to be honest with himself, as he pressed closer to the mage and pulled their bodies flush, his fingers digging into flesh for a better grip and his lips seeking out all of Anders’s secrets, this was pretty hot.

           “To the bed, Varric,” Hawke called in a voice pooling with desire.

           Reluctantly, Varric eased his hold on the mage, though he could not bring himself to break contact entirely. Hawke circled to Anders’s front and pushed the mage back until he fell onto the mattress. “Trousers,” she said demandingly. Varric obliged, grabbing the hem and pulling down. Blondie even helped by lying flat and lifting his hips so Varric might complete the exercise. The dwarf smirked, pulling Anders’s smallclothes with them, only to be humbled by recalling he hadn’t removed the mage’s blighted boots.

           He growled and dropped to the floor to make quick work of them. And he did. Much more swiftly than the trousers had gone, and with twice the lacing! He pulled them off, tossing them aside and then removed the rest of the mage’s clothing. When Varric stood his gaze was drawn to the man sprawled across the bed. He looked like debauchery itself: wild haired, smelling like liquor, and, thrust proudly upward – his cock, hard and red and dripping and they had hardly touched the man. Varric licked his lips absentmindedly.

           “Hardly seems fair,” Anders said cheekily as he propped himself up on his elbows. “Me all naked and vulnerable and you two still dressed.”

 _That smirk,_  Varric thought,  _how does he do that?_ He felt a twitch in his trousers. “Fuck it,” he growled. His hands had never been as nimble as they were in that moment. He removed his own attire with speedy efficiency and then turned to Hawke and did the same. Each time Anders watched them with a heady gaze, eyes lidded with desire. Each inch of skin he revealed regardless of if it was his own tougher hide or the surprisingly supple paleness of Hawke’s drew sounds of appreciation and want from the bed.

            Of course, once they were both down to what they came into the world in, Varric was a little lost. He fell back on the familiar, and went up on his toes as his hands gripped Hawke’s forearms and pulled her down to meet him. She smiled just a moment before their lips met. The kiss was frenzied, their lips smacking audibly. Varric let his hands wander, nails scratching lightly across Hawke’s ribs, just hard enough, just the way he knew she liked. It worked like a charm. Hawke threw her head back, moaning loudly and arching into his touch.

            That was when he knew it. This was going to be wild and frantic and,  _Maker help them_ , they were just going to have to hold on and hope for the best.

            Hawke pushed him to the bed as well, and he had a moment of gratitude for how low set it was. It was the moment before he fell onto his back beside the mage. Hawke loomed over them, eyes hungry, pink tongue darting out to moisten kiss-bruised lips. “I’m not sure what to do with you,” she admitted.

            “Go on, Blondie,” Varric said. “I can’t believe you’re being this restrained. There she is.  _Touch her_.”

            Varric could hear his shallow, rapid breaths. Anders looked at him like it might be a trap. Varric rolled his eyes and sat up, pulling Anders’s wrist in silent demand that he do the same. Then the dwarf led that hand to Hawke’s thigh and pressed the blonde’s palm against her skin. But he didn’t move, he just started at the spot where skin met skin. Varric covered Anders’s hand with his own and then, slowly, determinedly, and together they stroked up to her hip. Her flesh erupted in gooseflesh and she shuddered ever so slightly. “Touch her, Anders,” he said again. His voice gone rough with the heat of the exchange. He pressed his lips to Anders bicep and hoped he was coming of as sincere as he felt.

            He let his hand fall from Hawke as the opposite one found its way into the mage’s lap. If he was being entirely truthful he had no idea what he was doing, and he wasn’t trying to overthink it. Anders may have been the first and only man to light his fires, but Varric Tethras was no shrinking virgin. He let his hand linger on the mage’s thigh, fingers dallying, waiting to see what he would do. Anders gulped as his eyes sought out Hawke’s. She smiled down at him, her hand reaching out and stroking his stubbled jaw with the back of her fingers. But the mage  _still_  didn’t move his hand. It just sat there, thumb idly smoothing back and forth across her hip.

            Well, clearly this was going to call of drastic measures. Varric let his hand follow the curve of Anders’s thigh. There was no shy brushing of fingers across Anders’s manhood. Varric simply wrapped his fist around it and began a slow rhythmic stroke. The mage’s eyes rolled back and a low keening sob wracked his throat. Varric delighted in watching that reaction, but kept an even, languid pace. His eyes returned to the mage’s hand only to find it gripping Hawke’s hips tighter, more stationary than ever. Not that she minded. Her eyes were fire, watching them, and he knew she liked a little pressure there. “Anders,” Varric growled playfully. “Touch her. Or I’ll stop.”

            And suddenly the hand was moving, up to her waist, across the flat expanse of her stomach. He let his fingers brush across the small gathering of curls between her legs and Hawke gasped, her knees wobbling. Then Anders slipped his hand behind her, palming a single, firm cheek, and he squeezed. Varric knew he squeezed because Hawke’s hands shot out, gripping each of their shoulders for support as her legs attempted to fold under her. The dwarf ceased his movements, but did not loosen his grip.

            They were all still, in that moment, clinging to each other and panting. And they hadn’t even reached the main event.

            “So,” Anders said, breaking the silence with a small, proud laugh, “I see that still works.”

            Hawke glared but there was no venom in it. Varric barked a brief laugh and redoubled his efforts without warning. The mage fell to pudding, trembling and groaning, hardly able to keep his hands moving on Hawke. In a moment of divine grace, Varric kept the torture short. When he stopped and pulled away, Anders’s whimper followed and he felt a tickle of pride.

            “Alright,” Varric said gruffly. “Enough is enough. Everyone on the bed.”

            Hawke smiled at him before untangling her limbs from them and  _crawling_  across to the center of the bed where she lay on her back, primly waiting. Varric rolled over, and moved settling between her legs. He leaned over and kissed just below her navel before trailing lower. He nuzzled her, just there, breathing deep the scent of her.

            Anders eventually took his cue and stretched out beside Hawke. Varric watched, grinning when he saw the mage did not need further prompting. His hands were wandering her body, ghosting over her nipples, making her sigh. And then, as the dwarf watched, Anders kissed her. He’d been waiting for this. Sex was one thing, but a kiss said a lot about how you felt about a person, and your reaction to someone else kissing the woman you loved could say a lot about you. He’d been primed for jealousy. That feeling he got every time he’d seen Bianca in the same room as her husband.

            So, it was understandable that the warmth that flooded his chest was a little overwhelming. The kiss the two shared, despite being naked in bed, was pure. Affection and desire and relief and a dozen more beautiful things were rolled into that single caress of lips. Far from threatened, Varric felt…  _safe_. There was more than enough love in him for them both, and he could see now the same was true for them.

            He was still smiling when he dipped his head and let his tongue slip between Hawke’s gorgeous, glistening, pink folds. He could hear her moan swallowed up in Anders’s mouth as her back arched and she bucked slightly. He loved doing this for her. The way she moved, the sounds she made. He’d become rather good at reading her over the past few months. Which movements meant speed up or slow down. Which shifts were to direct him to a different angle and which were beyond her control. He used all those cues now. Fast, light licks in rapid succession, followed by long, slow licks with the flat of his tongue. A suckle here, a swirl there.

            She’d broken away from Blondie’s kiss at some point, he could hear her now, full-bodied and untethered in her pleasure. He could also hear a wet smacking sound. If Hawke’s movements were any gauge, he’d guess Ander’s was sucking on her nipples. He tried to ignore it, but curiosity got the better of him and he paused his efforts so he could look up.

            As he suspected the mage had his lips wrapped tightly around her right nipple, the left had gone a dusky rose from the suction and still glistened from Anders’s earlier attention.

            “Varric!” Hawke whined.

            “Sorry,” he chuckled, kissing the inside of her thigh. “It’s just, I think I need Blondie’s help down here.” Anders lifted his head and turned to look down at him with a face that said “Sorry. What?”

            The warrior woman smacked the bed. “You do  _not_  need his help,” she objected. “You’ve done this plenty of times.”

            “If you want me to continue, sweetheart, you’ll send the mage down,” Varric drawled threateningly.

            She shot daggers at him but he stood his ground. “Fine,” she huffed and let her head fall back into the bedding. Varric didn’t wait for Anders to get to him before returned to his efforts so for a few moments the mage was just sitting beside him, watching. He continued until he thought he could pause again without Hawke outright trying to kill him. Then he pressed a single stocky digit deep into her dripping warmth.

            “Ah!” She cried out amongst the shifting of sheets and blankets.

            Then.  _Then_  he withdrew his index finger and halted his attentions. She growled and Varric found his freehand stroking her flank, soothing her temper. He turned his face to Anders and lifted the finger. “Care for a taste, Blondie?” The mage’s pupils dilated, shifting the balance of his amber eyes.  _Finally_ , Anders’s hesitations were gone. He leaned forward, holding that intense eye contact with Varric as his tongue snaked out and licked the tip of the finger playfully before popping it into his mouth in its entirety. Anders’s eyes closed with a flutter of lashes as he sucked the finger deep into his mouth.

            Varric had not anticipated this being arousing. Well, not  _this_  arousing. He could feel the jerking between his legs, the heat pooling there and as his gaze fell from the lips puckered around his finger to the crux of the mage’s legs Varric could see it was doing wonderful things to Anders as well. Maker, help him. He might not survive this night. The mage let the finger fall with a “pop,” a sinful sound rolling after it.

            Andraste’s knickers, but that had sent Varric’s head spinning. He’d almost completely forgotten Hawke. But, naturally she wasn’t having that. She bent her leg at the knee and smacked him across the shoulder with it. It occurred to him that he could tease her further, but she’d been far more patient than he would have expected. If he didn’t give her what she wanted soon, he was risking bodily injury.

            He took Anders’s hand and led it between Hawke’s thighs. “Help me out here, Blondie,” he said by way of instruction before he returned to lapping at her sweetness. Anders’s slipped two fingers inside her as the dwarf redoubled his earlier efforts. He could feel he wriggling, feel the flesh of her sex contracting as Anders’s fingers pushed in and out matching the rhythm the dwarf had set, and he knew she wasn’t going to last long.

            It was a symphony of sex. The mage’s labored breathing in his ear, the wet smacking of digits and lips, a slurp here and here as he savored her, Hawke’s mewling purrs and cries as he body tensed and coiled, ready to tip over the edge. And then, the crescendo. Her back arched, the muscles of her thighs quivered, she let out a long cry as the pleasure washed over her and Anders groaned, “Maker…”

           For his part, Varric grinned and kept licking until Hawke bucked and gasped, “Stop.” He did as asked and looked up at her, his chin wet with her. She leaned up, smiled at him, and then waved him off. Anders slid his hand free but Varric wasn’t watching him closely, so when the mage pushed him onto his back he was taken by surprise.

           In a flash the mage had ducked his head and taken Varric in his mouth. The dwarf let out a low hiss and pressed his head back into the soft bedding. “Shit,” he gasped. Varric’s cock was built like him, short and stout. It gave some people trouble, but Anders was working him like he’d been doing it for years. Slow and deep, tongue swirling. His mouth created a beautiful suction and Varric found himself pressing his hips up to meet it thrust for thrust. The mage lifted one hand, sending it sliding up Varric’s stomach before fingers curled in his chest hair. He pulled gently, holding on as if  _he_  were the one in danger of falling off the world.

           The dwarf grabbed hold of Anders’s bicep, fingers digging into the modest muscle there. Generally he’d be willing to boast of his stamina, but the night was conspiring against him. The emotions of the coming trial, the time spend pleasuring Hawke, and the adrenaline of new experiences was combining into something potent. He turned his head to the side, eyes opening slightly, seeking Hawke. She had sat up and pressed her back to the headboard and she was watching them. Her hair was wild, he cheeks and chest flushed a gorgeous pink, and her fingers moved lazily between her spread legs, stroking.

           At that moment, his heart already pounding from the erotic sight and amazing sensations, Anders upped his game. His head bobbed faster, keeping a steady rhythm and he sucked. “Anders,” he gasped warningly, his grip on his arm tightening. “I’m gonna…” The tension that had coiled his body broke and he shuddered violently. His cock spilling hot streams of ejaculate as the blonde continued to suckle, drinking him down. Anders’s labors eased some, becoming more devoted to prolonging the pleasure, gradually lessening to a soothing lick and a kiss pressed to Varric’s knee.

           “Maker’s breath, Blondie,” Varric sighed breathily, gazing down at the top of the man’s head.

           Anders lifted his head and looked up the expanse of Varric’s body to meet his eyes. They twinkled with pride and amusement and the smallest hint of a smug smile tugged at his lips. For a moment he looked entirely like the man he used to know. Varric smiled back, lifting Anders’s hand from his chest and pressing a kiss to the palm before dropping it as Anders began moving up toward his face.

           He lingered there, breath smelling like sex, head cocking from side to side playfully before he leaned in and slanted his mouth over Varric’s in a deep, passionate kiss. It was intoxicating. Not just the desire in it, not just the want he could feel radiating off the man, but the taste of brandy, and his own sex, and something under it all that he had come to recognize as  _Anders_. It made his heart leap in his chest.

           Varric let the slow slide of Anders’s lips linger as long as he liked, waiting on the mage to break the kiss. Eventually, he did, though he stayed close, mouths grinning, noses touching until Varric motioned to Hawke with a jerk of his head. Anders chuffed a small laugh, pressed one more peck to his lips, and then moved to follow the suggestion.

           Anders crawled over to Hawke and grabbed her ankles, tugging her down the bed and sprawling atop her. Varric lay staring at the ceiling for a moment, recovering, relishing the sounds of kissing coming from the head of the bed. When he felt like he might be able to move his body again, he decided he needed a better view. Varric got up and walked to the other side of the bed before laying down beside them.

           Blondie sure was taking his time. It was impressive really, the way he could press his pelvis against Hawke’s without simply burying himself inside her. Especially given how long it had been since they’d been intimate. Varric reached out, letting his hands wander on whichever person they pleased, meandering and undirected.

           Hawke broke the kiss first by turning her head to the side and letting Anders trail kisses down her neck as she gasped, “Anders,  _please_.”

           The mage nodded once, and then shifted his hips. Varric couldn’t see him slide into her from this angle but he knew when he did because they both let out a long low groan of satisfaction. The mage buried his head in the crook of Hawke’s shoulder, muttering a string of praises and curses. Hawke was having none of it. She began rocking her hips against him, hard and fast, using the pure power of her thighs and the leverage of bent knees and planted heels to force him to  _move_. It let a fire in the mage and he went up on his hands, looking down at her as he thrust. The two locked eyes as Varric watched, gazes heated and intense, breath loud and labored.

           Anders closed his eyes. Hawke grinned triumphantly and rocked her entire body to the left, flipping the blonde onto his back. She sat upright wiggled. This view was much better. Varric could see Anders’s length disappearing inside her, swallowed by her wet warmth. And Maker help, he could feel his cock hardening at the sight. Anders looked up at Hawke, his eyes wide in surprise, his mouth hanging open in awe. Hawke moved evenly, her pace moderate, neither languid nor rushed, the beautiful pale roundness of her breasts, peaked with dark rosy nipples that had gone to hard peaks from arousal, bounced as she rode the mage.

           When Anders lifted his hands to those breasts and began squeezing them, fingers stopping occasionally to pinch and stroke, Varric felt the low throbbing in his groin break into full erection. It was nearly painful in its immediacy and he let his hand reach down and grip it, moving slowly as he observed the scene before him.

           The movement caught Anders’s attention and his head turned to look at Varric. His gaze traveled down and took in the dwarf’s actions. He bit his lip, hips bucking into Hawke, before he shot his glance back to Varric’s face. He’d been waiting for that and when those warm golden eyes, pupils blown wide with desire, focused on his face, Varric pounced, pressing his lips to the mage’s in another melting kiss. He could hear Hawke moan at the sight, could feel her movements speeding up, as she watched them.

           They kept on like that, Maker knows how long, until Hawke groaned loudly and said, “Come here, Varric.” Varric ended the kiss, turning to look at her, his brow furrowed. He sat up, looking up at her questioningly, but she shook her head. “Stand up,” she ordered. He let go of his length and stood beside her. He shot a glance at Anders who, if the spark of mischief in his eyes was any indication, understood what was going on. The mage’s hand wandered to the place where his body met Hawke’s and he slid this thumb up her slit and began making small circles. Hawke moaned and reached out, hand grasping Varric’s hardness and returning his regard to her.

           Just in time to see her lean over and take him in her mouth. Varric grunted, his hand tangling in her short hair out of reflex, as he vanished into that warm wetness. Maker’s hairy  _ass_ , but she felt amazing. As different to Anders as night to day and every bit as welcome. She preferred the slow build, drawing him to the brink over and over, then changing tactics just to deny him relief. The circled thumb and forefinger of her left hand held the base of his shaft as she bobbed her head drawing him in and out, tongue teasing, cheeks hollowing as she sucked hard, then stopped altogether to lick from balls to tip.

           He couldn’t stop looking at her. The red of her cheeks, the fringe of her hair swaying, her right hand entangled with Anders’s left, gripping so hard her knuckles were gone white. Her hips rocked faster as Anders’s thumb built her toward orgasm. He followed the mage’s hand up to his face, looking at them both. Anders was pink from the bridge of his nose to somewhere below his collarbone where the color vanished into the red and blonde chest hair that curled there. His eyes were squeezed shut, his head pressing back as he arched his back, his pelvis thrusting up, meeting Hawke stride for stride. Varric could see it now – they were, each of them, on the edge.

           Hawke broke first, moaning deeply around the cock in her mouth, body shuddering violently, hips and hands going staccato suddenly, as the power and pleasure washed through her. It was a domino effect from there. Anders’s cried out bucking wildly, spilling into her, hands griping hand and breast in an aching grip. And Varric, lucky enough to see it all – the broken pained faces of pleasure, the animalistic rutting, the pure delight – pulled Hawke close and shot himself inside her mouth, roaring as she drank him deeper. He felt her throat constricting as she swallowed, the vibration of a slow, satisfied moan, making its way to his tight sack and sending his entire body into convolutions so that he had to grip the brunette woman’s shoulders lest he tumble to the mattress with her lips still wrapped around him. 

           He managed to stay upright until she eased off him, and looked up grinning like a fool. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then fell to his knees. Hawke bent in half and dropped a chaste kiss on Anders’s lips then she slide off him and lay down opposite to Varric’s position. The mage hadn’t moved or spoken. All their chests heaved, the oxygen that had seemed so trivial when they were in the throes of desire was now so desperately needed that not a one of them moved.

           When the cadence of their breathing had slowed Anders’s voice floated up, light and intoxicated, “That was the best threesome I have ever had,” he said, starting to giggle. “Justice was a terrible third. All ‘the mission’ this and ‘what the hell are you doing’ that and ‘you know I think the parallelism principle of magic would make a good stimulant’… No, actually, that was brilliant advice.”

           Varric couldn’t help the roiling laugh that bubbled out of him to join Anders’s own amused giggling. Hawke guffawed the way she only did when she was truly happy and deeply amused. None of them could stop. Anders was sprawled on his back, head sinking into a pillow, body shaking with mirth, as Hawke buried her face in the mage’s armpit attempting to muffle her laughter. Varric fell over, sprawling across Anders sideways his face coming to rest somewhere near Hawke's hip – chuckling away.

           Slowly, the amusement eased. They shifted Hawke between them. Hands wandered aimlessly, caressing whatever skin they found. Hawke turned her head, kissing them each in turn. “Well done, my boys,” she sighed happily.

           “We are not her boys,” Anders objected jokingly.

           “Who are you trying to kid, Blondie,” Varric smirked back at him, lifting the mage’s hand to his lips and kissing it. “We are absolutely her boys.”

           “Yeah,” he agreed, smiling goofily. He squeezed the dwarf’s hand. “We are.”

 

VVV

 

            This was it. Anders wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do here. Was he supposed to look contrite? Stubborn? Really all he felt was terrified. The hall was filled with whispers and eyes that followed his march toward his end. He was flanked by the Templars who paraded him down the hall to the throne. He’d never seen the Inquisitor use the damn thing, not even during the midsummer feast. Turned out there was a reason for that – Inquisitor Trevelyan, it seemed, only sat on the throne to issue judgments. The fact that Fitzwilliam sat there now and that Anders was walking toward him filled him with a near primal terror. He’d known he couldn’t escape this forever. He had cost lives, sent people he loved into hiding, allowed a spirit to possess him and started a  _war_. This would be his last day as a free man. That he knew. He knew it the way he knew the sun would set in the evening and rise in the morn.   

            The march stopped. He looked up at Trevelyan’s face. It was hard and grim, a huge contrast to the man he had come to know in the last few months. And those eyes…  _Maker_. He could see now why people respected him. The Inquisitor was a man who would not budge.

            “Anders of the Ferelden Circle,” Fitzwilliam addressed him in a great booming voice. “You have been brought before us for judgement. Ambassador Montilyet will read a list of the charges levied against you.”

            Anders threw a sidelong look at the Antivan woman, Josephine.  She looked uncomfortable and something in her eyes read sorrow. She cleared her throat. “Anders of the Ferelden Circle, also known as Anders the Apostate, you are charged with the following crimes against the citizens of Ferelden: First, that you did knowingly, and with premeditation, concoct explosive devices which lead to the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry, and the death of Grand Cleric Elthina as well as all other souls contained within its walls.” He could hear her voice breaking, that lovely lilting accent catching on her words. “Secondly,” she pressed on, “that you took a spirit into your body. Thirdly, that your actions in Kirkwall started a war which savaged the city, causing the loss of still more lives in the days after the incident.” Josephine cleared her throat again. “It-it goes on like this for quite a while, I’m afraid,” she said apologetically. “Those are the relevant charges as they stand, Inquisitor.”

            Fitzwilliam nodded his head and waved her away. She retreated to the edge of the crowd and was soon just another watching face. “To these charges,” the Inquisitor asked, “how do you plead?”

            Anders could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the blood storming through his veins, he wanted to run, or scream or fight. But when his spoke his voice was weak, ashamed. “I am guilty of those crimes, your worship,” he said.

            Fitzwilliam looked genuinely surprised. Perhaps he’d been expecting more resistance from the mage. If so he would be disappointed. Anders had realized long ago that none of his actions had been justified.

            “I shall start with the second accusation leveled against you,” Fitzwilliam said, recomposing himself. “As the Chantry does not rule here, nor do the Circles, their laws hold no sway. I cannot, in good conscious, condemn you for the single action of cohabitating with a spirit and as I know the spirit has been banished, I decree you are no further threat on this count. I dismiss the second charge.”

            That started a low murmur in the crowd. Most seemed pleased with the ruling, but Anders could pick out a few offended-sounding noises. He figured they were mainly Templars and Chantry sisters.  

            “It seems to me,” the Inquisitor went on, “that the first and third charges are essentially the same. You are being held accountable for loss of life. You do not deny this charge?”

            Anders’s tongue darted out to wet dry lips, but it seemed that had gone dry as well. “N-no, your worship.”

            “Have you anything to say in your defense regarding these charges before sentence is passed?” Trevelyan asked.

            Anders nodded slowly, trying to work up the courage to say what were likely to be some of his last words in this life. “My actions,” he began as loudly as he could manage, “are inexcusable. I was so blinded by my hatred that I brought destruction down upon innocent people. I cost the life of the Grand Cleric. More than that I regret that I cost the lives of mothers and fathers.

           “For a long time I justified this act by telling myself this was how the world changed. It would take lives and wars but the sacrifices were worth it to build a better world for the future of mages.” He swallowed hard. “Then,” he said voice heavy with emotion, “I came here. I saw my dream realized. Free mages. But I didn’t do it. It was every person in Skyhold who offered a mage a hand in assistance and welcome. It was you, Inquisitor, offering them a home as equals. You made them free.  _I_  made them hunted. And excuse me for saying so, your worship, but that is the thing which weighs on me most heavily.

           “There is no defense I can give which will make my wrongs into rights,” Anders sighed. “I do not wish to die. But those people deserve justice.”

           The room had gone eerily silent. No whispers, just breathing. For a moment it seemed the entire hall, nobles, citizens, staff and all waited together for Fitzwilliam to speak. The Inquisitor sat, elbows on his knees, leaning forward intently, examining the mage before him. Determining his worth.

           And Anders realized he was going to die. Trevelyan was a good man, he was being more than fair with this trial. But the mage knew he would do his duty regardless of how friendly they had become.  _Well,_  he thought, surprisingly easy with the idea, _the end of summer is a beautiful time to go. My blood will match the changing of the leaves!_  The thought made him smile and he found he was trying very hard not to laugh. He ducked his head and tried to look ashamed. He  _was_  ashamed, after all, it was just a giggle fit had picked a terrible time to assault him.

           “Anders of the Ferelden Circle,” Fitzwilliam said, his voice deep and booming as he stood, back straight, to pass his judgement. “I find you guilty of the charges laid before you. The Council of Kirkwall has asked I pass sentence. Since I know the spirit which influenced you has been banished, I have no fear you are the man you were when these crimes were committed. However, this does not absolve you. Therefore, Anders of the Ferelden Circle, I ask for your life.”

           Anders left his head bowed as he accepted the sentence. He had known it would come to this – he was ready. Somewhere in the noise of the crowd, past the raging mages and cheering Templars, he could hear Hawke, screaming. She never had been a weeping, type of woman. She was more likely to start a brawl than cry, though it had been known to happen. Then all the chatter died abruptly. Well, all except for the angry growl of Hawke’s objections, that was. Admittedly, they were now,  _somewhat_  more restrained. Perhaps, wherever they were, Varric was taking initiative and attempting to calm her. Maker knew there wasn’t anyone else in that crowd she was likely to listen to.

           Anders lifted his head to look around in confusion. He had expected the Templars to grab him and drag him to the gallows. But they hadn’t moved. As a matter of fact, no one moved. All eyes were facing the throne, wide, attentive. Brows as far as the eye could see were furrowed in puzzlement. Anders turned, his gaze following to where they looked.

           Inquisitor Trevelyan stood tall, commanding, his hands lifted in a gesture which  _demanded_  silence. When he was assured of everyone’s unwavering attention he lowered them and addressed Anders once more. “I do not believe in wasting life,” he said solemnly. “I believe each person enhances us and elevates us, and each life lost deflates us. That it is unwise to throw out a thing which might be put to use in another capacity. This is the philosophy that has defined my tenure with the Inquisition. Therefore, Anders of the Ferelden Circle,” his voice was deep with authority and duty, more so than Anders had ever heard in any of their conversations, but it was also tempered by something… “I hereby dedicate your life to the service of the Inquisition. You will serve the needs and wishes of the Inquisition for the rest of your natural life. Your freedom is the price you will pay for your crimes.”

 _Compassion,_ he thought dumbly, missing the meaning of what he was hearing for just a moment.  _That was the secret something in his tone. Compassion._

           And then, the Inquisitor’s proclamation sank in. Anders’s jaw dropped. He tried to work his mouth to form words, but that didn’t seem to be effective at all. The crowd started cheering, a deafening wall of sound, disorienting him further. Hawke broke through the ranks, even the Templars, and tackled him to the floor. So now he was lying face down, on a stone floor, in a great hall, with a warrior woman hugging him from behind and squeezing all the air from his lungs. It was, somehow, still the greatest day of his life.

           “You will adjourn with our Lady Ambassador, when you can rise,” the Inquisitor said, obviously entertained despite the formality of his words. “Master Tethras, Cole, Alexandrea, and Hawke – you will please join them.”

           And just like that the trial was over and the Inquisitor walked away. Eventually, Hawke let him stand, and they marched into Josephine’s offices just outside the war room. It contained a fair number of smiling faces.

           Dorian approached him and handed him a glass of some kind of amber liquor before clinking the glasses and raising his in toast. “To cheating death,” he said with a wink, and a smirk he tried to hide behind the tumbler. Anders sipped, still grinning like anything. The mages walked over to where Josephine and the Inquisitor stood by the table.

           “There are a few caveats,” Josephine drawled in that delightful accent. “The first is that you will report in, here at Skyhold, at least once a year. It requires a personal visit. The second is that you have a handler.”

           Anders sighed. “Another Templar, I suppose. Well, at least I’m used to it.”

           “Actually,” Varric spoke up and walked forward. He had a glass too. Where had he found that? “Hawke and I are gonna go back to Kirkwall and help rebuild, now that our names are cleared. The kid is coming with,” he said, gesturing to a grinning Cole. “And we, well, that is, Hawke and I, we were kinda hoping you’d be willing to come with us, Blondie.”

           Anders blinked, struck speechless for the second time that day. He looked back and forth between Hawke and Varric. “Really?” He finally asked, dividing the question between them.

           Hawke nodded and took his hand, Varric held her other. They both smiled at him hopefully.

           “I’d be happy to sign Varric and Hawke off as your Inquisition-appointed handlers,” Trevelyan said and Anders couldn’t help but notice the man sounded like himself again. The hard voice of the Inquisitor had been put away. “If that is where you want to go.”

           Anders thought about it. The night before had been unexpected on so many levels. He had written it off as high tensions and too much drink. But… was it possible they actually cared about him? Wanted him? Maybe even needed him, as he needed them? His next words were far too private for a room occupied by a Tevinter mage, an ambassador, an Inquisitor, and two spirits, but he couldn’t keep them in. “Can we really do this?” he asked, sounding far more desperate and pleading than he would have liked. “The three of us? Can we be… whatever this might be?”

           Hawke smiled lopsidedly, her eyes so soft, as she squeezed his hand. “Yes,” she said with certainty. “I believe we can. We can be us. And we can rebuild Kirkwall. And, dammit, Anders, we might even be happy.”

           He grinned and felt the warmth spreading through his chest. His gaze fell down to Varric. “And you?” he asked the dwarf. “Is this what  _you_  want? You’re not just doing this for her?” He gestured toward the warrior between them. “Naturally, I would understand if you were.”

           Varric looked awkward and… _Maker,_  was that a blush crawling up his neck? But he cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah, Blondie. For a moment there today, I thought we’d lost you. I’ve never felt so sick, and not just because Hawke gut-punched me. I won’t say I’m  _not_  doin’ this for Hawke, but I… I’m doing it for me too. I want you around.”

           Yup, that was a blush for sure. Anders decided to capitalize on it by leaning down and capturing Varric’s lips in a searing kiss. The dwarf’s stubble scratched against his own as he kissed back with surprisingly little hesitation. After a moment Anders heard Josephine giggling, and Trevelyan clearing his throat and so, regretfully, Anders broke the kiss and returned to the task at hand.

           “What a display,” Dorian drawled approvingly.

           “I didn’t know they did that,” Cole whispered to Xan, who smacked him lightly.

           “I think,” Anders said, turning to take in the sight of the most important people in his life in one room, “I would be very glad to return to Kirkwall and help set my wrongs right.”

           “Dangerous place for you,” the Inquisitor warned.

           “Eh, don’t worry about him, Prickles,” Varric said. “We’ve got his back.”

           “Yes,” Hawke agreed.

           “I… I only have the _one_ back,” Cole was saying slowly, “but… I like to help!”

           “I concur,” Alexandrea added. “The mage must face justice. This is a good start. I will not let harm come to him.”

           “Well,” Josephine said brightly. “I’ll draw up the paperwork and send notice to the Council of Kirkwall. I think it would also be wise to reach out to the influences we have there, perhaps even your extended family, Inquisitor? It would help our… ‘Relief Team’ smooth any snags they might encounter.”

           The Inquisitor rolled his eyes at the mention of his family, but nodded his agreement just the same. Then he turned to the so-called team. “Well,” he asked leadingly, “what are you still doing here? Go celebrate!”

           And they did. The next week would be full of planning and packing and preparations for travel but for tonight they would revel in drinks to be drunk, and food to be eaten, and lips to be kissed. And lives that could be lived.

 

VVV

 

           Anders looked back behind him at the impressive bustling keep that was Skyhold. Early morning light set romantic shadows dancing through the courtyard. He was surprised to find himself feeling reluctant to leave. He’d lived many places in his life, but after the Circle took him he had just felt lost, like he didn’t belong. He was too much trouble in the Circle to make any real friends, everyone was too worried about being associated with him and incurring unwanted notice from the Templars. For a time he felt like he had found a home, with Hawke. But then the Chantry happened and even though she stayed by his side, he had known it wasn’t going to last. He couldn’t be trusted.

           Now, looking at the stone towers and battlements he felt homesick. This was the place he had found acceptance, forgiveness, and freedom. It was where he had learned to let go of his anger, where he finally undid the mistake of Justice, where he had received the grace he had never thought he deserved. But there was also a future in the mountains behind him. A place to go, with purpose to fulfill, and a life to live. A life he had thought forfeit years ago.

           The two spirits stood to his right. Cole stared up at the tavern where he had spent his nights, looking mournful. Varric had talked to him many times over the last week about why the place you lived wasn’t home, but Anders wasn’t sure how much of it had sunk in. Xan was trying to comfort Cole by telling him tales of Kirkwall. The things she had seen there, the people, the buildings. She was probably just trying to distract him, but either way he was soon smiling and asking her to tell him more about the cats.

           To his left were his two lovers. Maker knew how that arrangement was going to pan out, but for once Anders wasn’t going to spend his time brooding over it. There was affection and trust there and whatever it was, it was good. For him, for her, for all of them. He had been so confused that first night but he couldn’t bring himself to turn them away. Not when it might have been his last chance to touch another person, to feel wanted. He had assumed it was a one-time thing, and not only because they had fully expected his sentencing to end in a hanging. That would have been fitting. He would have contented himself in knowing how lucky he was, and the understanding that he had already received more than he deserved. Instead, Varric had claimed him as his ward, shocking the mage with his proposition – the three of them, rebuilding,  _together_. The thought still boggled.

           Before him stood the Inquisitor and his companion. Dorian, who had saved him, freed him, and spoken for him when Anders had thought the Inquisitor would turn him away. Dorian, who had called down the magics themselves and ordered them to break and obey him. He was one of the most powerful mages he had ever seen. Both brilliant and talented with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. In the short two months Anders had known him he had moved to the top of his list of magical role models.

           And then there was Trevelyan. The man to whom he owed his life and his freedom. Of course, the Inquisitor had made a spectacle of how Anders’s life was no longer his own, but they both knew the truth. Anders was had more independence under the Inquisition’s banner than he had been in possession of his entire life. He was deeply indebted to the man.

           In addition to saving his life, the Inquisitor had provided them with horses, supplies, a guide out of the mountain and into the Valley of Sacred Ashes – anything they had asked for. Once they had arrived safely in the basin they would have to make their own way to Kirkwall. It was going to be a long journey, but Anders was looking forward to it. It would feel like old times, being on the road with Hawke and Varric once again.

           For a while they all just stood there, awkwardly silent. No one wanted to say the last words. No one wanted to initiate the farewell.

           “Well,” Dorian drawled, hiding a yawn behind the back of his hand. “Someone had better say something flowery. It’s an ungodly hour to be awake.”

           Trevelyan elbowed the mage in his ribs, drawing a low exhale of air from him. “I’m going to miss you Varric,” the Inquisitor said, moving forward with an extended hand. The dwarf took it, shaking firmly and grinning. “We still need to have our rematch of Wicked Grace.”

           “Well,” Varric replied with a smirk, “we’ll have to give Curly time to forget what happened.”

           The Inquisitor let out a long laugh, “I think we traumatized him, actually.”

           Anders cleared his throat and fought to not shrink under the eyes that turned on him. “I just wanted to say thank you,” he said in a low voice. “For everything. You’re a good man Inquisitor.”

           Dorian nodded. “Yes,” he said, “he is. But so are you, Anders of the Inquisition.” Anders was surprised by the swell of pride the words brought in him. A new title. So long had he slaved under the Ferelden Circle and now he was free, bound to a cause in which he believed. He smiled appreciatively at Dorian.

           “Well,” Hawke said, finally taking the lead as she was want to do. “That’s as flowery as you’re going to get from this lot. Master Pavus, Inquisitor, I look forward to seeing you again.”

           The spirits had stood aside, seeming content to wait for the human interaction of farewells to be concluded. So Anders was a bit surprised when Dorian walked over and hugged Cole.

           “You’re happier now, Dorian,” Cole said with a smile.

           The mage smirked back, responding with a playful, “Is  _that_  what this light tingly feeling is? I suppose you’re right,” though he looked genuinely sorrowed to see the boy go.

           Xan quirked her head to the side, watching them. Cole turned to her, his eyes far off as if recovering a memory. It was a little disconcerting when he did that, but Anders supposed he would get used to it with time. The boy’s voice came out sounding dreamy, “Wishing but wondering, wounded and wistful. What if he doesn't want me after?”

           Xan’s brow furrowed, she turned to look at Dorian. “I cannot imagine you feeling that,” she admitted. “I have only ever known this man, the one who is content and comfortable.”

           Dorian’s cheeks colored just a tinge and he looked sheepish. “Because he  _did_ ,” he said with a shrug, an attempt at affected indifference. “He did want me.”

           Xan looked like she wanted to press the matter but a touch from Cole stopped her. Instead she nodded respectfully to him, the slightest declination of her head. Anders would give her this point in her favor, she was adapting well to the customs of mortals. Dorian smiled, all cock and confidence once more, and returned the gesture.  

           “Now you’re smiling!” Cole exclaimed brightly. “It’s good!”

           Dorian laughed softly and wrapped his arms around the boy once more. Anders could hear him whispering something to the spirit, though he could not make out the words. A moment later the mage returned to his place at the Inquisitor’s side.

           And that was that.

           They mounted, and started down the road. The rising sun set the peaks of the Frostbacks ablaze before them like Andraste’s flame.   

 

           …

 

           Fitzwilliam watched the group ride off until they were just black dots on a dirt road. He knew he’d done the right thing. They would be good for one another. A loving, if somewhat eccentric, family. He stared until Dorian tugged at his elbow. When he turned to look at him he was surprised to find his vision had gone a bit misty.

           Dorian managed a smile that was more watery than he was likely to confess to, and lifted a hand to his cheek, his thumb stroking the stubble that decorated his jawline. The Inquisitor was loathe to admit exactly how soothing that action was. It always settled him. “I hate endings,” he admitted to the mage.

           Dorian let out an affectionate laugh of amusement and said, “Of  _course_  you do.” Before Fitzwilliam could ask what  _that_  was supposed to mean the mage was kissing him, abruptly making the question seem unimportant.

           They parted, and turned to ascend the stair to the hall. They things which needed checking on. Many of their belongings had already been shipped, but there were a few things they would be sending ahead of them today, and some others they would take with them through the Warren – things too precious to trust to any other method. The device would work as planned and they would take them through, or it would malfunction and the items would parish with them. One or the other.

           Together, they entered the Inquisitor’s chambers. The room that they had shared, on and off, for the past two seasons. Fitzwilliam felt the melancholia oozing in as he looked about them. This room was full of memories, both happy and sad. The couch where they talked about their pasts. The pelt before the hearth where they had held each other. The desk where Dorian had left him little notes of affection. The balcony where they had watched sunsets wrapped in each other’s arms. He turned, smiling, as his gaze fell upon the bed. Oh, the  _bed_. The bed held some of the best memories. The first time they had sated their passion. Where they had talked about what would come next. Calling the mage a fool, and Dorian returning the sentiment. Dorian accepting the truth – he deserved to be loved. Taking the mage, in a first for them both. And the Lenen'hima'sa, the bond which they shared, it had been created here.

           “I wish I had had time to see copies of these commissioned,” Dorian was saying somewhere behind him. He knew to what the mage was referring. Books. He had found an entire, hidden, library  _full_  of books. Some he’d seen before but many of them had been beautifully persevered copies of texts long thought lost or that had been altered beyond recognition. He was now sorting through his favorites attempting to choose which ones he would carry through with him.

           “You know,” Fitzwilliam said, as he shoved assorted odds and ends into his satchel. “I can always bring a book  _back_  for you when I am here on business.”

           Dorian sighed. “Yes, yes, I know,” huffed dismissively. “But I had planned on reading more before we left. Then the mage showed up and sent everything askew!”

           Fitz smiled, pulling his pack closed and letting it set on the bed. He turned, crossed the room, and wrapped his arms around the mage from behind. Dorian made an irritated sound but did not try to disentangle himself. “Yes, I know,” Fitz said playfully. “And instead you had to be brilliant and sit down to break all the laws of magic,  _again._  Truly you suffer.”

           Dorian turned around, causing Fitzwilliam to angle his head back a bit so he might look up at him from their embrace. “You say that but it  _was_ incredibly dangerous and such brilliance  _can_  be a burden,” he replied in an attempt to look scandalized. He mostly looked amused. “I would have much rather been reading.”

           “No you wouldn’t,” Fitz laughed, dropping a kiss onto the mage’s neck.

           “No,” Dorian agreed, laughing softly and pressing a chaste peck to Fitzwilliam’s lips.  “I wouldn’t.”

           They returned to their work, checking crates and moving items. Dorian settled on a few volumes he could carry and returned the rest to the lower library where they would be safe. Fitzwilliam took only a single bag which he had slung over his shoulder. Apparently, he’d been traveling for too long. They were about to embark on a journey which would, if everything went according to plan, be instantaneous. Yet, Fitzwilliam found he had packed water and bread, cheese, bandages, vials of potions and oils, his daggers, and several of the spicy leaves he liked to chew. Despite the fact that nearly all of those items had already arrived in Tevinter, including a cutting of the gingermint plant from which the leaves came. Old habits, he supposed, as they made their way to the room where the Warren was hid.

            They descended the stairs to the undercroft, then made a sharp left at the bottom. There, in the rock wall, had been carved several rooms. They had disguised the construction under the guise of creating chambers for Sandal and Dagna. It had been a successful ruse because, naturally, no one had questioned that the dwarves would want to live in the cliff-side stone. And, to be fair, they  _did_  live there. It was just that they had also commissioned a room apart from those chambers, one only a handful of people knew of.

           Fitzwilliam stepped into that room and found himself stood before the massive chunk of be-runed lyrium. Dorian came through behind and stood to his right. For a few awestruck moments they stared, silently beholding the beautifully enormous device Dagna had dubbed a “Warren”. It glowed faintly, filling the small stone room with eerie blue light. They’d been assured, via one of the Transmitters, that its other half had arrived at Pavus Manor a week prior. They had paid a fortune to trade out horses, hire out the fastest ships, and grease the palm of every man or woman involved in seeing it on its way, nervous that it would not arrive in time. And for all that it had arrived early. Still, they had waited until their agreed upon departure date before braving the device. It seemed no one was eager to test it.

           Now that the time was here Fitzwilliam felt fortunate that he didn’t grasp how the device worked. Dorian, who had an intimate understanding of what, exactly, would happen to them when they walked through, looked downright green. The Inquisitor reached over, tenderly tangling his fingers between the mage’s, and squeezed. Dorian turned to look at him, managing a weak smile. “Think of it this way, Serah,” Fitz whispered. “Either the device works and we make history,  _or_  we die and you never have to introduce me to your mother.”

           Dorian blinked, blank-faced for a moment, and then an abrupt, boisterous laugh filled the small room, reverberating until the mage couldn’t breathe. Only then, when self-preservation had overridden his amusement, did the mage stop. “Amatus,” he gasped between gulps of air, “you really ought to give up this assassin business and become a jester.” Before Fitzwilliam could decide if that was an insult or a compliment, the mage pulled him close and slanted his mouth over his. For a moment, a moment filled by the soft, warm wetness of Dorian’s lips, nothing else mattered.

           It seemed it was indeed but a moment as it soon ended. Reluctantly, they lingered, luxuriating in being pressed close to one another. Fitzwilliam took in the way his lover’s eye sparkled in the blue light, listened to the distant roar of the waterfall. He breathed the crisp mountain air that invaded the cave, mixing with dirt and wet and tinged by the citrus-spice smell of Dorian. He allowed himself to luxuriate in the familiar, knowing the changes they were about to set into motion were huge, important, and terrifying.

           The Inquisitor could feel Dorian’s tension through their bond running close to his own nervousness, practically winding them together. He swallowed hard. “Ready, Serah?” He asked. His voice wavered. He couldn’t bring himself to care. The mage nodded, squeezing Fitz’s hand once more before dropping it to sling his book-stuffed pack over his shoulder.  “If the device fails your books might be destroyed,” he reminded him. Fitzwilliam reached down to his own belt, fingers seeking the precious item  _he_  could not bring himself to send ahead – a white handkerchief embroidered in red silk thread.

           The mage simply laughed and said, “Good, then I’ll be taking them with me to my grave.”

 _This will work,_  he told himself as they stepped, in tandem, toward the device.  _The tests were successful. We will walk in, and then we will walk out._  It was hard not to panic when they took the last step forward and crossed the threshold of the Warren. For a heartbeat nothing happened, and then blue light surrounded them. It waxed brighter and whiter until it obscured his view of Dorian all together and Fitzwilliam was forced to surrender, closing his eyes lest he be blinded. There was a feeling of slight pressure and refreshing cool, like submerging in a lake on a warm day. He wasn’t sure what he had expected it to feel like. He knew he had been actively avoiding thinking about pain, or being trapped in the fade again, but this was almost…  _pleasant._

           It wasn’t long before the sensation faded, replaced by moist, oppressive heat. The light dimmed gradually, from blue-white to the red brightness behind eyes which had been squeezed shut against a noonday sun. Only then did he dare open them, not bothering to take in the small unfurnished room, nor the people who stood within it. His head turned, gaze searching for one thing, for Dorian. He found him, breathing hard, eyes tightly closed, pulse point pounding in his neck and Fitzwilliam felt his relief as a palpable presence. The mage’s lids fluttered opened and he twisted, seeking Fitzwilliam in turn, knowing through the bond where to look. His grey-blue eyes focused on his face before falling closed again as he sighed with relief. A small smile of satisfaction played on his lips, twisting his mustache up to brush against his cheeks. Fitzwilliam could feel pride and accomplishment pulsing through Dorian’s side of the Lenen'hima'sa.

           “Inquisitor,” a calm, stately voice called.

           It pulled their attention, forcing them to turn and address the man and woman who were the only other people in the room. The dignified presence of Halward Pavus stood before them, smiling hospitably. Beside him stood his wife, tall and stately with raven hair and a steely gaze her polished courtesy could not obscure.

           Magister Pavus stepped forward and bowed elegantly, his voice sincerity itself as he said, “Welcome to Minrathous.”

 

 

~ fin Adjustments

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/rikkitikkicathy

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I understand that there is some debate, about Cole, within the community. Some people think he took human form, others think he simply forgot that he had possessed Cole's body after it died. Obviously, for the purpose of this fic, I went with the latter theory. This decision was not meant to rock anyone's world view or cannon. 
> 
> Also: No, I will never ever write a Xan/Cole smut piece. As far as I am concerned they are asexual.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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